by Chris Ryan
Mallet said, ‘Tiny’s the team medic. He also deals with anything related to entry, breaking security systems. As you know, he used to run the lock-picking wing at Hereford. If there’s a safe that needs cracking, he’s your man. Or if you need a terrible chat-up line.’
He pointed to the man to the right of Loader. The figure with the cropped hair. Under the glare of the overhead lights in the Shed, Bowman saw that his chin was a knot of pinkish scar tissue. He was lean and tough, with muscles like cement and a fierce look in his eyes. There was a quiet intensity to the guy, Bowman noted. As if he might explode into violence at the slightest provocation.
‘This is Sergeant Patrick Webb,’ Mallet said. ‘He’s from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment.’
‘All right, mate,’ Bowman said. ‘How’s it going?’
Webb nodded a curt greeting.
Mallet said, ‘Patrick is our lead surveillance operator and team linguist. Fluent in seven languages. He did three years with SRR before he was picked up by Thames House. Now he works for us.’
Bowman nodded. The Special Reconnaissance Regiment was the modern successor to The Det, the shadowy surveillance unit that worked alongside the Regiment in Northern Ireland. SRR candidates were trained in many of the same skillsets as their predecessors in the Det. They were the ultimate grey men and women, able to operate in areas others couldn’t, recceing targets and observing enemy positions. Their skills were highly prized by the security services, who often recruited SRR operators to carry out surveillance work.
‘Josh did two years in SRR himself,’ Mallet said to Webb.
‘When did you join SRR, mate?’ Bowman said. ‘I don’t remember seeing you around the ops room when I was there.’
‘Four years ago,’ Webb replied in a heavy Birmingham accent. ‘We don’t know each other.’
‘You’re a Brummie, eh? Villa fan?’
‘City.’
He said nothing more and stared blankly at Bowman, his lips pressed into a hard line. A long moment passed between them. Bowman figured he was the kind of guy who preferred silence to small talk.
Mallet turned to the third member of the team. The dark-haired woman with the strawberry lips.
‘Captain Alex Casey,’ he said. ‘She’s also from SRR.’
Casey smiled at him. She had a small mousy face, with a button nose and a slender neck, but the big green eyes were constantly alert, observing everything, missing nothing. Her side-parted hair was the colour of coffee grounds.
‘Alex is our electronics specialist,’ Mallet said. ‘She’s in charge of our surveillance equipment, comms, nano-drones. Anything technical, Alex can take care of it.’
‘You can take care of my handset any day of the week, love,’ Loader said.
Casey stared at him with flat eyes. ‘That’s not funny, Tiny. It doesn’t even make sense.’
She spoke in a clipped Home Counties accent. She sounded more like a Pimlico book editor than a member of Britain’s covert reconnaissance unit.
‘Alex was in 18 Signals before she joined SRR,’ Mallet added. ‘Which means she’s good at all the cyber stuff too. If you’ve ever looked at porn, she’ll know about it.’
Bowman nodded thoughtfully. The men and women of 18 Signals handled secure comms for UKSF. It was the largest regiment in the British Army, with a dedicated selection course lasting for six months. The signallers were a talented bunch, highly educated, tech-savvy.
Mallet said, ‘I’m sure you lot would love to sit around bumping your gums, but we’re on the clock. We’ve got a team briefing with Six in two minutes.’
‘Who are they sending down from Vauxhall?’ asked Bowman.
‘No one,’ said Loader. ‘It’s all done remotely, boyo. She just speaks to us through that.’
He tipped his head at the speakerphone in the centre of the desk.
‘Don’t you see her face?’ said Bowman.
Casey shook her head quickly. ‘We don’t even know her name. Assuming it’s a woman, that is. It could just as easily be a man’s voice disguised through a modulator.’
‘What do you call her?’
‘The Voice,’ said Loader. ‘What else?’
Bowman pursed his lips. He’d worked with the security services on numerous ops in the past, during his time with E Squadron, and later with the Wing. He’d met with MI6 officers for mission briefings in safe houses, sometimes in hotel suites, sometimes elsewhere. But whatever the situation, he had always known the identity of the officer in charge. He wondered: Why would Six go to such extreme lengths to hide their identities?
I don’t know. But we’re about to go on a mission, and we don’t have a clue who we’re really working for.
Mallet checked his watch again. ‘Mic is going live in one minute,’ he said.
The team members waited in tense silence. Casey drummed her fingers on the polished walnut surface. Loader folded his arms and unfolded them again, fidgeting nervously. Webb sat immobile, looking at the wall, as if he was locked in a staring competition with it and the prize was a million quid.
‘Thirty seconds,’ said Mallet.
Casey stopped drumming her fingers. Loader sat up straight. Webb continued his staring contest with the soundproofed wall. Mallet watched the sweep hand tick round on his watch. Seconds ticking by. Twenty-five seconds later, he reached over and pressed a button on the speakerphone. A sibilant noise bled out of the speaker, filling the room.
Then the Voice spoke.
‘John? Are you there?’
‘I’m here,’ Mallet responded.
‘And your colleagues?’
‘Everyone is present,’ Mallet said. ‘Josh Bowman is here as well. He’s been brought in, as we discussed earlier.’
‘Has he been briefed?’
‘He knows the basics. We’ll update him fully later.’
‘Good.’
The Voice had an echoing, synthetic ring to it. The sort of automated tone you heard at airport terminals and train stations, making important announcements. A speech synthesiser, perhaps, as Casey had suggested. Or a piece of software that did the same thing. Probably encrypted at both ends.
Another layer of deniability.
‘I’ll get straight down to brass tacks,’ the Voice continued. ‘There’s been a critical development in the situation with the Lang brothers. Earlier this evening, there was an attack at the royal wedding reception in Mayfair. I’m sure you’ve seen the reports on the news.’
‘What’s that got to do with our mission?’ asked Casey.
‘The victim was Freddie Lang.’
Loader stiffened. Webb and Casey looked at one another.
‘Freddie’s dead?’ Casey asked.
‘Not yet,’ the Voice replied. ‘He’s currently in the ICU at University College Hospital. But I’m told the outlook is grim. Frankly, it’ll be a miracle if he survives the night. He ingested a significant dose of poison. Enough to kill several people.’
‘Do we know who’s responsible?’
‘Could be anyone,’ said Loader. ‘Let’s face it, Freddie’s got more enemies than I’ve had women.’
‘More than one, Tiny?’ Bowman joked.
Mallet chuckled. Casey rolled her eyes in disdain.
The Voice said, ‘Actually, we know, with reasonable certainty, who carried out the attack.’
‘Who?’ asked Loader.
‘It’s early days. The guys at Porton Down are still running tests. We won’t have official confirmation for some time yet. But we have reason to believe that Lang was poisoned with a nerve agent. Something from the Novichok family. We’re working on the assumption that the Russians are responsible.’
‘But the Russians have used Novichok before,’ said Casey.
‘Correct. Your point being . . . ?’
‘Why would they risk carrying out another attack with the same type of poison? Everyone would know they were behind it.’
‘This is the Russians we’re talking about,’ Bowman cut in.
‘They don’t give two shits about plausible deniability. They just wanted to make a statement.’
‘Josh is right. Poisoning is the Kremlin’s MO,’ Mallet added quickly. ‘They know they can get away with it, and the worst that happens is we expel a few diplomats. Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t carried out another attack sooner.’
The Voice said, ‘We’re not here to discuss the details of a criminal investigation. That is not the purpose of this meeting.’
Even through the artificial modulator, Bowman detected a certain hostility in the MI6 officer’s voice. The snooty Vauxhall attitude rearing its ugly head, he reflected. Bowman had encountered it before. Oxbridge-educated spooks, looking down their noses at the military, regarding them as little more than a bunch of musclebound idiots.
‘There’s more,’ the Voice added. ‘John. Perhaps you’d care to explain.’
All eyes in the room turned to the Cell team leader. Mallet laced his hands in front of him and cleared his throat.
‘Shortly before he slipped into a coma, our old pal Freddie spilled his guts about the meeting between David Lang, Galkin and Bezuglov in Monte Carlo. Which, of course, we already know about. But Freddie provided us with some new information.’
‘What information, exactly?’ Casey asked.
‘Lang isn’t going to the meeting alone. He’s got Ken Seguma with him.’
‘Seguma?’ Loader repeated. ‘Wasn’t he at the wedding today?’
‘That’s not the real president. He sent a body double in his place.’
‘What’s he doing in Monte Carlo?’
‘I think we can be reasonably certain that it involves the meeting Lang has arranged with the Russians.’
Casey said, ‘How do we know all this?’
‘Josh spoke to Freddie, moments before he slipped into a coma,’ Mallet replied. ‘Freddie told him everything.’
Loader looked at Bowman with renewed interest. ‘You were at the wedding?’
‘We had orders to bodyguard Seguma. Me and three other guys from the Wing,’ Bowman replied. ‘Putting our lives on the line for a nobody, as it turns out.’
Loader edged backwards in horror. ‘Bloody hell, are you infected?’
‘Piss off,’ Bowman said. ‘I should be worried about catching something from you, mate. All the groupies you claim to have had.’
Casey said, ‘How can we be sure that Freddie is telling the truth?’
‘Thames House has questioned the man purporting to be President Seguma,’ the Voice responded in its train-station-announcement tone. ‘He’s confessed to the scam. It appears the president’s personal assistant and bodyguards were in on it as well. But they don’t appear to have been involved in the wider plot.’
‘Freddie also claimed that his brother is blundering into a trap,’ Mallet chipped in. ‘Reckons the Russians are planning to ambush the meeting. Stab David Lang in the back.’
Bowman heard the rustling of papers. The Voice said, ‘It’s imperative that we intercept David Lang at once, before he walks into a trap. You’ll set off immediately, as soon as this briefing has finished.’
Mallet said, ‘As you all know, Lang is meeting Galkin and Bezuglov in Antibes at noon local time. Eleven o’clock our time. Galkin’s mansion is a one-hour drive from Monte Carlo. Which means we’ll need to isolate Lang before eleven o’clock, local time. Less than seven hours from now.’
‘What’s the deal with transport?’ asked Bowman.
The Voice said, ‘There’s a private jet waiting for you at RAF Northolt. It’s been booked through a private firm in St Albans. You’ve been granted priority clearance onto the airfield. Everything has been arranged in advance. Wheels up at five o’clock this morning. A Caravelle will take you there. Should be with you in the next thirty minutes.’
‘Do we need a blue-light convoy?’
‘That won’t be necessary. We’ve checked the route. Traffic is light. Shouldn’t be any problems getting to Northolt.’
Bowman made a rough mental calculation. Northolt was approximately an hour’s drive from their location. The Caravelle would pick them up at 03.50. Which meant they would be arriving at the airfield with a few minutes to spare before they took off. There would be no time to go through the mission before they departed. He wondered when he was going to be told the full picture.
‘The jet has been booked under the name of PLQ Trading Limited,’ the Voice went on. ‘As far as the staff and crew are concerned, you’re a group of wealthy businesspeople flying out for a jolly in the south of France. It’s a two-hour flight to Nice. It’ll have to be Nice as there’s no airport in Monaco. In case anyone asks questions, we’ve made reservations at the Orleans Hotel in the city centre.’
‘How do we get to Monaco?’ said Webb.
‘Helicopter transfer. Which has also been booked. You’ll arrive in the principality at around eight o’clock, local time.’
Bowman said, ‘What happens once we land?’
‘You’ll head to your prearranged RV to collect vehicles and weapons. John has the details. That should leave you with around two hours to get to the apartment complex and make your move before Lang departs for the meeting in Antibes.’
Bowman sucked the air between his teeth. ‘We’re gonna be cutting it fine. What if Lang leaves his flat early? He might decide to take the scenic route to the meeting. Check out some sights on the Riviera.’
‘Our analysts consider it unlikely. Lang doesn’t move around much when he’s in town, by all accounts. He’s a reclusive fellow. Stays indoors most of the time, entertaining his friends or watching the boxing.’
‘Don’t forget, he’s got Seguma with him as well,’ Mallet added. ‘Which makes him even less likely to set foot outside unnecessarily. That prick will want to keep a low profile.’
The Voice said, ‘As an extra precaution, we’ve asked the guys at GCHQ to ping his mobile every sixty seconds. If Lang makes an unexpected move, we’ll know about it.’
Mallet said, ‘You all know the plan to arrest Davey Boy at his apartment. There’s no need to run through the details again right now. I’ve told Josh he’ll receive a full update after this briefing. As soon as we’ve got Lang where we want him, we’ll turn the screw.’
‘What makes you think Lang will spill his guts?’ asked Bowman.
‘He won’t have a choice,’ the Voice said simply. ‘Once you present him with the facts of his brother’s poisoning, Lang will realise that he’s being set up. That ought to get him talking.’
‘Lang will suspect it’s a trap. Even if he doesn’t, he won’t tell us the truth. He’ll spin some bollocks story.’
‘We’re well aware of that.’ The Scot looked meaningfully at Bowman. ‘That’s where you come in.’
‘Me?’
‘You’ve got the inside knowledge on mobsters. You grew up around the Lang twins. You know their world. Their mindset. You can help us to anticipate how Lang might react, identify any weak points. Chinks in his armour.’
‘I don’t know the bloke from Adam.’
‘But you know how gangsters think. How their minds work.’ Mallet spread his hands across the table. ‘Then there’s all that undercover work you did with the Met. You must have learned a thing or two about what makes criminals tick.’
‘That was donkey’s years ago.’
Mallet swatted away the words with his hand. ‘You never forget that kind of stuff. And another thing. You’re the one who heard Freddie’s confession. You can tell David how his brother suffered, how the life slipped out of him right in front of you. It’ll feel authentic.’
Bowman shook his head determinedly. ‘Lang won’t talk to you. Or me. Or anyone. It would make him a snitch.’
‘Then we’ll torture him,’ Mallet suggested. ‘Slap him around a bit. Waterboard him.’
Loader looked horrified. ‘You can’t do that, John.’
‘Why not?’
‘Torture won’t work.’ Webb hadn’t said a word during the briefing
, but now he addressed the others in his thick Brummie accent. ‘I’ve seen blokes tortured before. Only works on a certain type. It ain’t the likes of Lang. He’s a tough bastard.’
‘He’s right,’ Bowman said. ‘You can’t make Lang talk, not through pain.’
‘What do you suggest, then?’
Bowman considered. ‘There is one thing that might work.’
‘Go on.’
‘Lang is rumoured to run a paedophile ring. Him and his brother supply underage boys and girls to a bunch of rich bastards. Politicians, lords and businessmen. They smuggle kids in from group homes and host secret parties at David’s mansion in Essex. The guests are secretly filmed, to entrap them.’
‘Unsubstantiated rumours,’ the Voice said. ‘Street gossip.’
‘There’s more to it than that. I’ve heard that Lang has a taste for young girls as well.’
Mallet tilted his head at Bowman. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I heard it while I was doing an undercover job. Up in Liverpool. No one talks about it publicly, because they’re all shit-scared of the Langs, but it’s well known in the underworld. It’s his dirty secret.’
‘Even if that’s true,’ the Voice said, ‘we can’t threaten to prosecute Lang. It would never stand up in court.’
‘You don’t need to charge him,’ Bowman countered. ‘Just smear his reputation. You lot are experts in destroying lives. You must have a few tricks up your sleeves.’
Casey steepled her delicate fingers on the table. ‘That could work. Lang likes to think of himself as a legitimate businessman, after all. He’ll want to protect that.’
‘I’ll speak to our team,’ the Voice said. ‘See what they can do.’
‘What’s the plan once we’ve questioned Lang?’ asked Bowman.
‘That depends on his level of cooperation.’
‘What about the attack on Freddie?’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s all over the news. Lang is bound to find out that his brother has been poisoned. If he hasn’t found out already. What if he works out what’s afoot and calls off the meeting?’