by Chris Ryan
‘We’ve anticipated that. Scotland Yard has been briefed. They’ve been instructed to withhold details of the investigation for a few days. News outlets have been told that the victim’s identity won’t be made public until his family has been notified. That should buy you enough time to complete your mission.’
Mallet leaned forward and looked round the room. ‘Any questions?’
Loader said, ‘What do you want us to do with Seguma?’
‘He’s a great friend of the British government,’ the Voice responded. ‘Make sure he doesn’t come to harm. That’s priority number one.’
‘Do you want us to bring him back with us?’
‘We can hardly leave him high and dry in Monaco, can we?’ The Voice was undeniably sarky despite its flat neutral tone.
Webb said, ‘Seguma won’t be pleased to see us, if he’s planning to strike a deal with the Kremlin behind our backs. He might cause us problems.’
‘Leave the president to us,’ said the Voice. ‘Just focus on getting Lang to tell us what he knows.’
‘There’s one thing I don’t get,’ Bowman said after a pause. ‘Why would the Russians kill the Lang twins, if they’re supposedly brokering some big deal with them?’
Mallet stared silently at the speakerphone, as if deferring to a higher authority.
‘We don’t know,’ the Voice said. ‘Perhaps there’s a financial incentive. The Russians might have decided it’s in their interest to cut the middlemen out of the deal. Increase their profit margin.’
Casey said, ‘But the Russians must have known that if word leaked about Freddie’s death, his brother would call off the meeting. Why would they take the risk?’
‘We don’t have time for this sort of idle speculation,’ the Voice replied tonelessly. ‘Now, unless you have any more questions, I suggest you prepare to leave for Northolt. The next time we speak, I expect to hear David Lang on the other end.’
‘We’ll get the bastard,’ Mallet said. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘Make sure that you do,’ the Voice warned. ‘Whatever David Lang is planning with the Russians, we need to put a stop it. I don’t care what you do, or how you do it,’ she added. ‘Just get to Lang and make him talk. Before it’s too late.’
Eleven
The line cut out. Mallet reached across the table and tapped a backlit button on the speakerphone, shutting the unit down. He checked his watch, then glanced round the room with his hard Glaswegian stare.
‘The Caravelle will be here in twenty minutes,’ he said. ‘Remember, this is a fastball operation. We’ll load up the wagon and then head straight to the airfield. The plane will be waiting for us on the pan, fuelled and ready to go. Any questions?’
Loader did a double-take. ‘You’re coming with us?’
‘Change of plan,’ Mallet replied.
‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’
‘We need boots on the ground. The original plan was for a five-man team. You’ve lost two guys. Josh will fill one slot. I’ll fill the other. If the other lads were here, I’d send them along. But they’re both tied up on a posting, so you’ve got me instead. Besides, I’m already up to speed. Unless you’ve got a problem with that?’
Loader held up his hands. ‘You won’t get any arguments from me, John. The more the merrier, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Good.’ Mallet turned to the others. ‘The seventh dwarf approves, so we can all breathe a sigh of relief. How about the rest of you? Anyone have anything to add?’
Casey and Webb both shook their heads. Mallet looked round at Bowman and said, ‘There’s no time to go through the plan right now. We’ll update you fully en route to France. As soon as we’re in the air. Rat runs, equipment, procedures on capture.’
‘Capture?’
Mallet laughed. ‘When I say “capture”, I mean arrest. We might be driving to the target and get involved in a pile-up. Or a kid might run out in front of us and get hit.’
Bowman was starting to see the picture more clearly now. They were going in on a deniable operation to arrest a suspect during the day, in the middle of a packed urban environment. Which meant the team would need to make contingency plans for any number of situations and emergencies. Murphy’s Law. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Bowman would have to commit every procedure to memory before they touched down in the south of France.
‘Will we have enough time?’ he asked. ‘On the plane?’
‘It’s a two-hour flight to Nice. Should give us plenty of time to go through everything. Unless you’re planning to spend the flight like Tiny, using crap chat-up lines on the stewardess.’
He boosted up from his chair, signalled the end of the meeting.
‘Hurry up and get your kit sorted,’ he barked. ‘We’re out of the door in eighteen.’ Everyone stood to leave.
‘A word, Josh,’ Mallet added.
Bowman stayed put while the others trooped out of the room. Mallet rooted around in his pockets and chucked another stick of nicotine gum into his mouth. ‘You’ve got your ghost ID on you?’
‘In my pocket,’ Bowman said, recalling the two UKNs banging on his hotel door in the dead hours, ordering him to bring his Wing-issued passport with him to the meeting at Tower Bridge.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What’s the deal?’
‘We’ll give you a new cover story in the next few days,’ Mallet said. ‘In the meantime, you’ll have to go with the cover you used in the Wing. It’s not ideal, but it’ll have to do.’
‘What about my phone?’
‘You’ll be using your existing encrypted handset for the mission. You can stick the battery on charge during the flight.’ He paused. ‘We’ll need to sort you out with a uniform as well.’
Bowman frowned. ‘What’s my role in all of this, John?’
‘You’re going in as part of a two-man team disguised as couriers,’ Mallet said. ‘That’s how we’ll gain entry to Lang’s apartment. You’re one of the couriers.’
‘Who’s the other?’
‘Patrick. You’ll pretend to have legal documents that need to be countersigned by Lang. It’s the only way we can sneak in and out of the block without anyone spotting us.’
‘I’m playing catch-up, John. I need to know what the plan is.’
Mallet glared at him. ‘There’s no time to discuss this right now. It’ll have to wait until we’re en route to France.’
Bowman hesitated. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’
‘Dressing up as couriers?’
‘Bringing me on the op.’ He pointed to the pinboard. ‘I’m coming on to this thing late in the day. I still don’t know the ins and outs of the op, any of the SOPs, none of it.’
‘What’s the problem? I thought you wanted to fight mobsters.’
‘I do. But I didn’t expect to be going in half-cocked.’
‘You won’t be. We’ll go over every inch of the plan on the jet. By the time we land, you’ll be fully in the loop.’
‘That’s all I needed to know.’
Mallet straightened up.
‘You can leave your Wing-issued weapon here,’ he said. ‘Along with any spare clips, radio, your SIS ID. Someone will be along later to collect it all. Did you leave anything in your room?’
Bowman thought of the crushed pill he’d flushed down the toilet. ‘No, boss—I mean, John.’
‘Someone from Six will give it the once-over anyway. Leave the card with the rest of your Wing kit.’ He hesitated. ‘One more thing. This business with the nerve agent. Since you’re not foaming at the mouth, I reckon you’re in the clear. But Six wants a bit more reassurance. Risk of transmission and so on. You’ll have to get tested once we’re back home.’
‘Fine,’ Bowman said. Then he remembered something else. ‘Any news on that CCTV footage from the ballroom?’
‘Five has looked into it,’ Mallet said flatly. ‘It’s a dead end. The cameras weren’t working.’
‘All of them?’
>
‘That’s what they said.’
‘Can’t they trace the suspects through their mobile phone signals?’
‘The Russians only carry burners with them on these ops. They’re professionals. They’re probably on their way to Moscow by now.’ He glanced at his Breitling. ‘We’ve wasted enough time. Go and find Casey. She’ll get a uniform for you.’
They left the Shed. Mallet marched over to his makeshift office near to the computer terminals. There was a flurry of activity around the basement as the rest of the team hastily snatched up maps, documents, laptops. All the items they would be taking with them on the op. Bowman found Casey at the vanity table, packing a blonde wig into her rucksack.
‘I need a uniform,’ he said.
Casey tilted her head to one side as she cast an eye over the hard figure standing in front of him. She took in his impressive shoulders and honed biceps, his eyes as grey as stones.
‘What size are you?’ she asked. Bowman started to reply but Casey quickly shook her head and said, ‘Forget that. Stupid question. You’re definitely a large.’
She hurried over to the wardrobe, fetched one of the courier outfits. The logo of a well-known international delivery firm was stitched onto the breast pocket of the shirt and the front of the baseball cap. She held the uniform up alongside Bowman, judging cut and length and shape. Nodded.
‘There. That ought to fit. Pack that in your bag.’
Bowman draped the uniform over his forearm. Casey bit her lower lip, deep in thought. ‘Are you sterile?’ she asked.
‘I bloody hope not.’ Bowman grinned. ‘Not at my age.’
Casey gave him a disapproving look. ‘Let’s pretend to be adults and dispense with the sexual innuendo for a minute. I mean, do you have anything identifiable on you? Jewellery, engraved rings, bracelets, anything like that?’
‘I’ve come straight from a job with the Wing. I’m clean.’
She smiled sympathetically. ‘Sounds like you’ve had a rough day.’
‘I’ve had better.’ He pointed his head at Webb. He was standing over his bunk bed, methodically checking the kit in his holdall, packing a load of paperback books. ‘What’s his deal? He doesn’t say much.’
‘That’s just Patrick for you.’
‘Has he got a problem with me?’
‘Don’t take it personally. I’ve spent three years in the same unit and I hardly know a thing about him.’
‘Is he good?’
‘The best I’ve worked with,’ said Casey. ‘He once spent three weeks outside an apartment in Jordan, dressed as a beggar, observing a target, and no one rumbled him.’
Bowman grunted. ‘As long as there’s no problem between us.’
‘There isn’t. Believe me. He’s the same with everyone. But he knows his stuff.’ She paused. ‘They say he used to roll with a gang, you know. In Birmingham. Before he joined the army.’
‘Jesus. How did he get out?’
‘I’m not familiar with the details. Another SRR guy told me. Something about Patrick’s dad getting killed, he said. That’s all I know. Patrick won’t talk about it.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess we’ve all got our secrets, haven’t we?’
Bowman ignored the question.
‘How long have you been with the Cell?’ he asked.
‘Six months. Why?’
‘Does Six always brief us over the mic?’
‘As far as I can remember.’
‘You don’t think that’s strange?’
‘I think lots of things are strange. Right-wing conspiracy theories. People who have never shopped online. Male banter.’
‘You know what I mean, Alex.’
Casey gave a slight shrug. ‘Who knows what they think over at Vauxhall? They’re an entirely different species from the rest of us. Perhaps they don’t fancy slumming it in a basement in Aldgate. Not their scene, I imagine.’
‘Maybe,’ Bowman said, uncertainly.
‘You think there’s another reason?’
‘I don’t know,’ Bowman muttered.
Something doesn’t feel right, he thought. The suits at Vauxhall were going to a lot of trouble to insulate themselves from this unit. Cleary, they didn’t want anything to connect them to the Cell or its operations. But why? Bowman wondered.
Casey took a band of euros from the vanity table and handed it to Bowman. ‘Here. You’ll need this as well.’
‘What for?’
‘In case we get separated. Keep receipts, won’t you. Six hates it when we don’t keep receipts.’
Bowman hastened over to the bunk beds. He unzipped his holdall and stuffed his uniform, cap and the bundle of notes inside. Bowman had packed his go-bag before leaving Hereford two days ago. The bag contained all the essential items: his washbag, a spare T-shirt, jeans, underwear and socks, a pair of trainers, a basic medical pack, a pen and notebook, a small HD camera. Everything an operator needed to function for forty-eight hours.
He zipped up the bag and joined Loader and Webb at the breakout area. Casey hurried over to them a short time later. Mallet hovered next to the landline, waiting for the call from Six to let them know the Caravelle had arrived.
The others watched the news. The rolling coverage of the poisoning in Mayfair. A red-headed reporter summarised what they knew so far. Which wasn’t much. Three people had been hospitalised, she said. One of them was in a critical condition. The others were seriously ill but stable. The police were in the process of notifying the families of the victims. The police were appealing to any witnesses to come forward. A Cobra meeting had been called. Buckingham Palace had issued a tersely worded statement condemning the attack.
There was nothing in the report about Lang, or Moscow, or nerve agents.
Loader shook his head. ‘You’ve got to hand it to the Russians. They’ve got some brass balls on them, staging an attack at a royal wedding. Bloody cheek of it.’
Casey said, ‘I didn’t know you were a fan of the royal family, Keith.’
‘I’m not. I couldn’t give two hoots about them. But my Mary, bless her, she loves them. She’ll be upset, watching this with the kids.’
‘What do you think they’re discussing at this meeting?’ Webb said.
‘It’s obvious, ain’t it, Brummie?’ Loader replied. ‘They’re gonna apply the pressure to the president. Get him to change teams. Make him see the light and pledge his allegiance to Moscow.’
Bowman scratched his grizzled jaw. ‘Whatever they’re planning, Lang doesn’t want anyone to know about it.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘They sent a body double to London. That was a risky move. Could have easily backfired. If the royals had found out the truth, it would have created a big stink. Why bother doing that unless they wanted to keep this meeting secret?’
‘But if this is about changing sides,’ said Casey, ‘why would Seguma turn his back on London? We’ve kept him in power for twenty-four years. He owes us everything.’
‘Money,’ said Loader. ‘It’s always about the readies, love.’
Casey shook her head slowly. ‘There must be more to it than that. Seguma wouldn’t risk everything for the sake of a few million.’
‘I would, if I was in his boots.’
‘You have eight mouths to feed on Special Forces pay.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Seguma is already very rich. He’s pilfered millions from the oil profits. He doesn’t need the cash.’
‘Perhaps Lang has changed his mind,’ Bowman offered. ‘Maybe he stands to gain from the arrangement somehow.’
‘Greedy, is he?’ asked Loader.
Bowman laughed cynically. ‘That bastard would crawl over his crippled sister and shag his own mother for the sake of a few quid.’
Four minutes later, a phone rang across the floor space. Mallet grabbed the receiver, listened for several beats, then hung up again without replying. He snatched up his luggage and marched over to the breakout area.
‘Everyone ready?’
They nodded.
‘Let’s go, then. The wagon’s waiting.’
*
They left through the service yard, at the rear of the building. The same entrance once used to securely transfer prisoners to and from the adjacent cell block, back when the building had been a public-facing station. It was still fully dark as they swept outside. Four o’clock in the morning in late March. Technically spring, but the experience on the ground was somewhat different. The night was cold and dank. The air was so crisp you could almost snap it. Bowman followed the rest of the team across a litter-strewn yard towards a sliding metal gate flanked by a high fence topped with anti-climb spikes. There was a pedestrian door built into the panel to the left of the gate. An external keypad was fixed to the brickwork. A security light affixed to the metal lintel flickered intermittently.
Mallet halted in front of the door. He kicked aside the mountain of takeaway cartons, energy drink cans and cigarette packets at the foot of the door and pressed the release button on the keypad. The entrance unlocked with a whirring buzz. Mallet yanked it open and led the team down a sloping ramp towards a narrow side street. They walked past a line of cars and approached a jet-black Volkswagen Caravelle, headlamps burning in the semi-darkness of the street.
Mallet knocked twice on the passenger window. The side door sucked open, and then Loader got in. He took one of the middle seats and dumped his bag at his feet. Casey jumped in after him, then Webb squeezed into one of the bench seats in the rear of the van.
As Bowman shaped to follow him, Mallet reached out and grabbed his arm.
‘Are you fully focused, lad?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. Sure. Why?’
‘I need you razor sharp on this one,’ Mallet said quietly. ‘I can’t have any of my guys getting sloppy on the job.’ Before Bowman could protest, he added, ‘I know you’ve had a long day and no kip. That’s why I’m asking, you understand.’
His expression was kindly, but there was a knowing look in his eyes. Bowman started to suspect that Mallet knew more about him than he was letting on.
‘It’s all good,’ he replied flatly. ‘I’m ready.’