by Chris Ryan
Suddenly, he understood.
‘It’s too late for me,’ Lang said, his voice fading to a low murmur. ‘But you can still save my brother.’
Lang swallowed painfully, struggling with the effort to go on. Saliva pooled at the corners of his mouth.
‘We had a deal,’ he said. ‘But they lied to us. I see that now.’
He closed his eyes, summoning one last ounce of strength.
‘It’s a trap. They’re going to kill David,’ he said. ‘Just like they killed . . . me. You must . . . stop them.’
‘What’s happening in Monte Carlo? Where are they meeting?’
But Lang didn’t appear to have heard him. He shivered. ‘So cold . . . Jesus, fuck.’
‘Mr Lang.’ Bowman’s voice was urgent. ‘Stay with me.’
Lang had a faraway look in his eyes. His breathing shallowed to a faint rasping noise. His jaw slackened. He was slipping in and out of consciousness.
Bowman gently eased him into the recovery position. He grabbed a bottle of still water from the nearest table, unscrewed the cap and doused his hands and face, removing any spores he might have unwittingly picked up.
The ballroom had almost emptied. A handful of guests hung back near the fire exits, rubbernecking the scene. One or two had gone into shock and sat down on chairs, or in the street outside. Some of the waiters watched from the service doors; others hurried back into the kitchen, shouting at their co-workers. On the other side of the room, two police officers burst through the doors connecting to the main lobby. A heavyset man and a petite blonde-haired woman with an upturned nose. They scurried over to Lang.
‘Step away, please, sir,’ the big guy said. ‘Stand clear.’
‘Don’t touch him,’ Bowman said as he moved away from Lang.
‘Why?’ the button-nosed woman said. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s been poisoned,’ Bowman said. ‘If you come into contact with him, you might get some of the same stuff on your skin.’
‘Who are you?’ the man asked.
‘Security services.’ Bowman showed them his ID. ‘We’re protecting one of the VIPs. Where are your mates?’
‘On their way.’
Bowman pointed to the stragglers and the people filming on their phones. ‘Get this lot out of here. Secure the exits. No one in or out except emergency services personnel. The last thing we want is some idiot blundering in here and getting infected.’
The officer saw the urgency written on his face and relayed a string of urgent instructions into his police radio. Bowman watched them both from a safe distance.
Lang had stopped moving.
He heard Studley’s voice in his earpiece: ‘Principal is secure. He’s on the move. What’s going on in there?’
‘Victim is unconscious,’ Bowman said. ‘It’s Freddie Lang. He’s been deliberately poisoned. Ambulance is on the way.’
‘Stay where you are,’ Studley said. ‘I’m coming in.’
Bowman retreated to a table in the corner of the ballroom, twenty metres from Lang. A safe distance, probably. But who really knew? More police officers swarmed inside, dashing over from their positions at the front of the hotel and the surrounding streets. They quickly began securing the area, sealing off doors and ushering the remaining stragglers and hotel staff towards the exits.
Two minutes later, Bill Studley charged into the ballroom. He breezed past two police officers guarding the fire exit and marched straight over to Bowman. He saw Lang’s chalk-white face and abruptly halted.
‘Jesus,’ he said.
‘Where are the others?’ asked Bowman.
‘Lomas and Kember are taking the principal back to his hotel,’ he said. ‘He’ll be staying in his suite. Him and his BG team. He won’t be setting foot outside his room. Not until we’ve figured out what the fuck is going on.’
‘He’s a body double,’ Bowman said, barely concealing his rage. ‘Seguma. We’ve been protecting a nobody.’
Studley pulled a face. ‘Bollocks. Says who?’
‘Lang.’
A deep frown creased Studley’s face. ‘Half a mo. You spoke with him?’
Bowman nodded. ‘Right after it happened. He wanted to talk.’
‘Why would Seguma send a body double here?’ Studley asked.
‘Lang reckoned the real Seguma is in Monte Carlo,’ Bowman said. ‘With Lang’s twin brother, David. He said they’re out there to meet with some Russians.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t go into specifics. Lang mentioned something about a deal. But they’re walking into a trap. He says the Russians are going to betray them.’
‘You think he was telling the truth?’
‘Lang knew he was dying,’ Bowman said. ‘He knew the Russians had got to him. He wanted to confess.’
‘Fuck me.’ Studley ran a hand through his hair. ‘Who else knows about this?’
‘No one.’ Kember had gone outside to raise the alarm. ‘Why?’
‘No reason.’
‘We need to talk to those two BGs,’ said Bowman. ‘The ones I told you about.’
‘What for?’ Studley snarled. ‘I told you already, them lads checked out.’
‘They were involved, Bill.’
‘You don’t know that.’
Bowman said, ‘One of them had something hanging out of his jacket pocket. I didn’t know what it was at the time. Or at least, I couldn’t remember where I’d seen it before. It’s a respirator strap.’
‘Why would a couple of BGs be carrying respirators?’
‘To protect them from the nerve agent,’ Bowman explained. ‘They would have needed gloves too, probably. They must have followed Lang into the toilets, put an out-of-order sign outside and then jumped him. That’s how I would have done it.’
Studley puckered his brow. ‘Let me see if I’ve got this right. You’re suspicious, because of some fucking strap you glimpsed for half a second?’
‘Why else would they be carrying masks around?’ He pointed to the corridor. ‘We’ve got a witness who says Lang told him he was mugged in the toilets. We need to get hold of the CCTV footage. That’ll show us what those BGs were up to.’
‘But we can’t be sure he was attacked here,’ said Studley. ‘How do you know he didn’t drink it in his morning tea?’
Bowman shook his head. ‘The BGs had something to do with this. I’m sure of it. We need to find them.’
Studley said, ‘I’ll ask the suits at Five and Six to look into it. But if they are involved, they’ll be long gone by now.’
‘We should notify the other guys,’ Bowman said. ‘Tell them they’re not needed at the hotel anymore. Now that we know that this guy isn’t the principal.’
‘I’ll take care of it.’
Studley’s phone hummed. He moved away to take the call, barked a few words down the line before he hung up again.
‘Officers from Counter Terrorism Command are on their way,’ he said to Bowman. ‘They’ll want a word with you, I imagine. Someone from the Cell is heading over as well.’
‘The Cell?’ Bowman frowned. ‘What’s their involvement?’
‘How would I know?’ Studley replied moodily. ‘No one ever tells us anything about them.’
Bowman looked away, his mind racing ahead of him. Every SAS man had heard of the Cell. It was a covert unit within the Wing, a small inner circle of veteran SAS men tasked with carrying out clandestine operations at home and abroad. The guys in the Cell kept a low profile: no one outside the unit knew anything about their activities, except that they worked closely with the security services and the police. In a world of shadow warfare, fought between non-state actors, the Cell was the ultimate deniable force.
And now they wanted to speak with Bowman.
What was their interest in this op? Why would they care about a hit on Freddie Lang?
And what do they want with me?
‘Wait here,’ Studley said. ‘Don’t say anything
or speak to anyone until the others show up. Then you can tell them exactly what Lang said.’
Seven
The first paramedics arrived on the scene six minutes later. Half a dozen of them, jogging along either side of a gurney. Like soldiers at a siege, lugging a battering ram towards the enemy’s gate. They huddled around Lang, checking his vitals. One of the medics shone a pen torch into his eyes. Another swabbed the inside of his mouth. A third asked Lang if he could hear them. Lang didn’t respond. There was a big discussion amongst the medics interspersed with radio chatter, messages bouncing back and forth. Decisions being made. Then a complicated operation to lift Lang onto the gurney. Bowman looked on as they wheeled him away to the waiting ambulance. He felt no remorse for Lang. The guy was a sadistic psychopath. He’d inflicted untold misery in his life. He didn’t deserve a happy ending.
And if he dies, thought Bowman, my secret is safe.
After fifteen minutes the last of the VIPs had been driven away from the hotel. By that point the police had managed to evacuate the remaining civilians from the building. A steady stream of staff, security officials and caterers traipsed through the emergency exits to a cordoned-off area across the road. Another team of paramedics treated guests for minor injuries. Some were in shock. Others had fallen or hurt themselves in the crush to escape the ballroom.
A short while later, a smartly dressed figure stepped in from the cold.
He was in his mid-fifties, though his weathered face suggested someone at least a decade older. His greying hair was swept back in a silver wave. His eyes gleamed with menace, like knife tips catching the sun. He had the lean greyhound physique of a Regiment veteran, a body built for endurance and hardship and killing, rather than grunt work. But he was dressed more like a partner at a City law firm on casual Friday: dark blazer, light blue shirt, black trousers and tobacco-brown suede shoes, a stainless-steel Breitling watch clamped around his wrist. Bowman recognised him at once.
John Mallet. A former legend of 22 SAS.
The leader of the Cell.
Studley tucked away his phone and greeted the ex-Regiment man as he marched over. He seemed small next to Mallet, thought Bowman. It wasn’t a physical thing: Studley was only two or three inches shorter than the other man. It was something in the way Mallet carried himself. Composed, still, a quiet but robust confidence. Studley seemed deferential towards the older man. Subservient, almost. As if he was in the presence of a superior being.
The two men approached Bowman. Studley gestured to the silver-haired ex-officer at his side.
He said: ‘You’ve met John before, haven’t you? He runs the Cell these days. He’s got a few questions.’
Bowman nodded keenly. Almost every lad at Hereford had met Mallet at one time or another. Or at least heard of him. The guy was something of a mystery. A Glaswegian, born and bred in Govan, he had joined the Regiment in the early 1990s, eventually attaining the rank of colonel. He was rarely seen around the camp, always going on obscure postings overseas, working on shady special projects and team jobs. No one knew where he went, or why. There were rumours that he had deep connections to both Five and Six. The older guys in the Regiment claimed that Mallet had been one of the founders of the Cell. He had done the business in Iraq, Bosnia and Sierra Leone, they said. Along with a bunch of other places. A true hero of 22 SAS.
Another thought crossed Bowman’s mind. If Mallet is personally involved, the situation must be serious.
Mallet smiled at him and said, ‘Hello, Josh.’
Christ, Bowman thought. He remembers me. Bowman had only met him once before. Eight years ago. Bowman had collected his first gallantry award, and Mallet had come over to congratulate him. Eight years, and the guy still hasn’t forgotten my name.
‘Hello, boss.’
‘I’ll have to keep this brief,’ Mallet went on in his strong Scottish burr. ‘Our friends from Counter Terrorism will be here in a few minutes. I understand Lang spoke to you, before he fell unconscious.’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Bowman.
‘Perhaps you can tell me what Freddie said. Word for word, if possible.’
It wasn’t a direct order, but Mallet’s charm and the attentive look on his face made Bowman want to please him anyway. He had the manners of a career politician. That ability to make you feel as if you were the most important person in the room.
Bowman told him everything. Lang’s dying confession. The president’s body double, the secret meeting in Monte Carlo. His desperate plea to save his brother before the Russians got to him.
‘Did Freddie say anything else about this meeting?’ Mallet asked. ‘What his brother is discussing with the Russians, perhaps?’
‘Nothing like that, no.’
‘You’re sure he said nothing else?’
‘I’ve told you everything. Which is a lot more than anyone has told us.’
Mallet frowned. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘We risked our necks for that body double,’ Bowman growled. Anger flared in his chest. ‘Any one of us could have been shot trying to save him. Someone dropped a bollock on the intelligence for this op, and I want to know who.’
‘That’s none of your business,’ Mallet replied sternly.
‘Sorry, boss, but that’s not good enough.’ Bowman felt the rage simmering in his veins. ‘One of our lads could have died tonight. I want to know what the fuck is going on.’
Mallet showed no sign of irritation. He remained perfectly composed. A teacher patiently dealing with an irate student.
‘I can’t go into specifics,’ he said. ‘All I can tell you is that this business about a body double was nothing to do with us. If we had known anything about it, we would have told your team. You have my word on that.’
Bowman watched him closely, looking for a tell. But Mallet’s expression was utterly unreadable. He might as well try to read a brick wall. Something else occurred to him then.
He said, ‘The Russians must have planned that attack at Westminster Abbey as well. The assassination attempt.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Something that bothered me at the time. That assassination plot was well planned. A few anti-government protestors wouldn’t have the discipline or the resources to mount an attack like that. It’s got to be the Russians.’
Studley scratched his head. ‘Why would the Russians sanction a dummy attack on the president?’
‘To create a distraction. The killers knew we’d be focused on Seguma after the attempt on his life. No one would be looking at Lang. They staged the hit to throw us off the scent.’
Studley puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘The Kremlin must have really wanted this guy dead.’
‘Them, or the Russian mob,’ said Bowman.
‘Isn’t that the same thing these days?’ A knowing smile crept across Mallet’s face.
‘What about David Lang?’ asked Bowman.
‘What about him?’
‘If what Freddie Lang said is true, he’s in trouble.’
Studley contorted his face into a contemptuous sneer. ‘I wouldn’t shed any tears over him, Josh. That fucker is probably out in France fixing a drug deal. If the Russians do get to him, it’ll be one less thick mobster to worry about.’
Bowman shook his head forcefully. ‘David Lang isn’t stupid. He might be a bastard, but he’s clever.’
‘He’s a gangster,’ Studley said. ‘They’re all idiots.’
‘David Lang is different. He’s not like other crime bosses. The bloke has got an IQ of 182. That makes him a genius. He reads philosophy books for fun, studies economics in his spare time. He’s evil, but first and foremost he considers himself a businessman.’
Studley grunted. ‘You sound like you admire the prick.’
‘I’m just telling you how it is. And I’ll tell you something else. Whatever he’s doing in Monte Carlo, it must be big. David isn’t the kind of bloke who spends his time arranging petty drug deals. He’s always been more int
erested in the big picture, even when he was a kid.’
Mallet narrowed his eyes to razors. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘I grew up around the Langs.’
‘A Cockney boy, eh?’
‘Romford born and bred,’ Bowman said. ‘Toughest people in the country, boss.’
Mallet grinned. ‘Except for us Scots, of course.’
‘Maybe. But we’re craftier.’
Mallet laughed. ‘I expect you’re right,’ he said. Then he looked intently at Bowman. ‘So you knew the Lang twins, eh?’
‘Everyone did, boss. We were a tight-knit community.’
‘Any criminals in the family, Josh?’
Bowman knew better than to lie. ‘My uncle had friends in the underworld,’ he said. ‘My granddad too. Every family knew someone linked to the Langs or one of their gang associates. It was just a way of life for us back then.’
He left out the part about his brother-in-law and oldest friend, Carter Grant, working as a lieutenant for the Lang twins. His drug dependency. The opioids he bought from Lang’s dealer.
Mallet stared at him thoughtfully. ‘I understand you used to be a police officer.’
‘That’s right, boss. Three years in the Met.’
‘Undercover work, I hear. Gang stuff.’
Bowman nodded.
‘Rather unusual, isn’t it? Someone from your background, joining the force. Like siding with the enemy.’
‘Not really,’ said Bowman. ‘I spent years growing up around gangsters. I saw how they really operated. How they bullied people and ruined lives. I figured I should do something about it. And I knew how to behave around them. How to talk like them, how they thought. That gave me an edge, working undercover. Helped me to blend in.’
‘You’re something of an expert on mobsters, then.’
‘I know a fair bit. More than most, I guess.’
Mallet was silent as he sized the younger man up. He looked at Bowman the way a butcher assesses cattle at a market. Bowman couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Reading Mallet’s face was like picking up a book and finding it was written in a foreign language. You knew there were words on the page, but that didn’t make it any easier to read.