by Chris Ryan
‘OK then.’
He released his grip on Bowman’s bicep. Bowman ducked into the van and took the bench seat beside Webb, the holdall resting between his feet. Mallet boarded last, dropping into the empty seat next to Bowman.
The side door whirred shut, and the driver glanced round to check on his five passengers. Bowman was surprised to see a familiar face looking back at him. Buzzcut. One of the three UKNs who had collected him from his dingy hotel room earlier that night. A little over two hours ago, but it felt more like two days.
‘We’re ready,’ Mallet said. ‘Let’s move.’
Twelve
The guys kept to themselves as the Caravelle cruised west out of the city. They spent the time rechecking bits of kit or gazing out of the window. Casey swiped and tapped at her phone screen, getting live updates from Six on Lang’s current position. Mallet chewed his nicotine gum. Loader showed Webb pictures of one of his kids in a Swansea City kit. Webb pretended to look interested. As they skated west, Bowman tried to ignore the cravings. They had been getting worse since they’d left the police station, nibbling away at him. It wouldn’t be long before the shakes started again. A few hours at most. Maybe sooner.
I’ll need a few pills to get through the op, he told himself. He remembered what Mallet had told him when he’d offered him the job with the Cell.
This is a temporary posting. There are no guarantees that you’ll be kept on once the mission is over.
If I’m struggling with opioid withdrawal, Bowman thought, there’s no way I’ll be able to perform today. My career in the Cell will be over before it’s begun.
The first hint of dawn tinged the horizon as they neared the airfield. A guard in a high-vis jacket stepped out of the guardroom as Buzzcut drove up to the front gate. Buzzcut lowered his window and flashed his security pass. The guard studied it closely, cross-checking the details against the flight manifest on his clipboard. He handed the pass back to the driver and gave him a set of directions, thrusting his arm towards a row of buildings on the south side of the airfield.
The Caravelle coasted past the guardroom and down the access road for a quarter of a mile, passing maintenance buildings and a fuel dump and a half-empty car park. They raced past the terminal, turned left and hit another checkpoint. There was a short pause, then the boom barrier lifted and the Caravelle drove on, and suddenly they hit the pan: a lake of smooth asphalt two hundred metres due south of the runway. Further to the north, on the other side of the aerodrome, Bowman could just about see the lights coming from the RAF base.
They sheared off to the left and approached a Gulfstream business jet resting on the pan. The airstairs were in the lowered position. A long-legged woman in a bright pink flight attendant’s uniform and black pumps stood at the bottom of the steps, a pink scarf wrapped like a collar around her neck.
‘Remember the story,’ said Mallet. ‘Six rented this jet through a private company. The one we’re supposed to be working for. As far as this lot is concerned, we’re five high-powered execs going on a luxury trip to the French Riviera to enjoy some fine dining.’
Bowman nodded his understanding. He’d flown on deniable ops before with the Wing. The security services didn’t own private planes. They were too expensive to operate and spent too much time idle on the ground to justify the taxpayer expense. Far cheaper, and more convenient, to lease them privately through one of the dozens of front businesses MI6 operated. The companies themselves were untraceable, their ownership structures hidden behind a web of offshore shell companies.
The Caravelle pulled up alongside the Gulfstream, the side door flew open and the team snatched their bags and scrambled out. The attendant stepped forward from the stairs and flashed a pearly white smile at the team as she greeted them. She had the enthusiasm of a make-up counter assistant and the perfumed scent to match.
‘My name is Calypso,’ she said. ‘I’ll be looking after you today.’
Loader winked at her. ‘You can look after me any time you want, sweetheart.’
She smiled politely. ‘Do you have any special requests for your flight?’
‘Not today,’ Mallet said brusquely.
‘This way, sir.’
They ascended the steps, passed the galley and entered a main cabin divided into three salons. There was a lot of soft leather on display, a lot of polished wood and luxury furnishings. Enough seating to accommodate a dozen passengers. A flat-screen TV mounted on a credenza in the middle section of the cabin. A conference table, a minibar stocked with bottled water and soft drinks. There was a separate office at the front of the cabin equipped with a printer, fax machine, shredder and ultra-fast Wi-Fi, the attendant said. Everything a business executive needed.
If this op does go pear-shaped, thought Bowman, at least Six is sending us off in style.
They stowed their bags and buckled up. Nine minutes later, the Gulfstream was climbing through the low clouds. As soon as the jet levelled out, the team relocated to the conference area in the middle salon. Bowman, Mallet, Casey and Loader dropped into the four seats either side of the table. Then Webb hauled over one of the holdalls stowed in the aft luggage compartment. He retrieved a laptop and a thick manilla folder from inside, set them down on the table and dumped the holdall on the floor and perched himself on it, using it as a makeshift beanbag. The attendant sauntered over from the galley, wearing her pearly smile.
‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked. ‘Breakfast? Coffee? Champagne?’
‘No thanks,’ Mallet replied in an amiable but firm tone. ‘We’ll be fine, lass. Me and the guys here are having a business meeting. We don’t want to be disturbed.’
‘Well, if you need anything, just let me know.’
‘We will, sweetheart,’ Loader said with a wide grin. ‘We will.’
His eyes followed the attendant as she wandered back down the aisle to the galley, hips swaying gently. Mallet said, ‘Forget it.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘You didn’t have to. It’s all over your face. You wouldn’t stand a chance. She’s not interested in your Welsh arse.’
Loader looked hurt. ‘You don’t know that.’
‘Aye, I do. Do you want to know why?’
Loader shook his head.
‘Because she’s got taste.’
‘Sometimes you can be a real bastard, John.’
‘Life is harsh. Get used to it.’ He nodded at Casey. ‘Get the map out. We’ve got a lot to run through.’
Casey reached into the folder and unfolded a detailed street map of Monte Carlo. Mallet tapped a gnarled finger at an apartment block circled with black marker pen. Bowman leaned in for a closer look. The building was situated on Avenue Princesse Grace. One of the most expensive streets in Monaco. The most expensive address in the world, twenty years ago. Before the moneyed elites took up residence in Kensington and Fifth Avenue and St Moritz. Now it was probably lucky to make the top twenty. There was a promenade to the east of the apartment, straddling a narrow crescent of artificial beach. To the north, a short distance away, stood a rocky promontory with a sprawling casino and hotel resort extending across it. Casino Square was maybe half a mile to the south.
‘This is Lang’s residence,’ Mallet began. ‘The Du Veil apartment block. Lang owns a three-bedroom apartment on the eighteenth floor. There’s a twenty-four-hour concierge, security cameras covering all the entry and exit points, remote alarms, the works.’
He pointed to a spot on the map a hundred metres due south of the building on Avenue Princesse Grace.
‘This is the drop-off point,’ he said. ‘You’ll make your way on foot from here to the building. Patrick will handle the concierge.’
‘You speak French?’ asked Bowman.
Webb laughed and said, ‘My mother’s side of the family is from Martinique. It’s all I spoke around my grandparents.’
‘What’s our story?’
Mallet said, ‘You’ll claim to have urgent legal documents that need t
o be countersigned by David Lang,’ Mallet said. ‘Six have drawn up a couple of ID cards, in case you get arrested. That should get you past the front desk.’
‘Won’t Lang get suspicious?’
‘Six doesn’t think so.’
‘I don’t care what they think,’ Bowman said. ‘It’s my neck on the line, not theirs.’
‘And mine,’ Webb added.
Mallet sighed irritably. ‘It won’t be a problem. Lang likes to think of himself as a reputable businessman. That’s why he’s pumped his money into hotels, casinos, mining companies. All that legit money comes with paperwork. This won’t strike him as unusual.’
‘What’s the plan once we’re inside?’
‘You’ll subdue Lang and Seguma and clear the apartment. Patrick will watch over them. Meanwhile, you’ll change into Lang’s clothes and head down to the underground car park. There’s a private lift, so no one will see you entering or leaving. Lang keeps a Range Rover down there. We’ll give you the licence plate, so you’ll know which one to look for. You’ll take his wagon out for a spin,’ he added, tracing a finger south along the main road, ‘drive down as far as this roundabout, swing round and head north again to pick me and Alex up. That way, no one will see us entering the building.’
‘Why me?’ asked Bowman.
‘You’re roughly the same build as Lang. You could almost pass as his third twin. There are cameras in the underground parking facility. When the security staff see you getting behind the wheel, they’ll naturally assume it’s Lang popping out for a pack of ciggies.
‘Once we’re inside,’ Mallet added, ‘we’ll take the lift back up to Lang’s apartment and question him. I’ll be leading the interrogation.’
‘What about Tiny?’ Bowman asked.
‘He’ll wait in the car. Keep an eye on the entrance to the block. That’s the plan. But knowing Tiny, he’ll probably pass the time eyeing up the local talent and wishing he was taller than an elf.’
‘Size ain’t everything, John.’
‘Fuck me, is that the line you use on women? No wonder you can’t get laid.’
Casey gave them both an eye-roll and said, ‘If someone shows up – one of Lang’s associates, or the police – Keith will let you know. That’ll give you a few minutes’ warning to get out.’
Bowman said, ‘What’s the exfiltration plan?’
‘We’ll escort President Seguma down to the car park and drive out in Lang’s wagon. A UKN will RV with us on the way to the airport. We’ll dump the kit, get on a private jet and fly home. By the time anyone has figured out what’s happened, we’ll be long gone.’
‘And Lang?’
‘He’ll come with us too,’ Mallet said, icily. ‘But we’re not asking him nicely.’
Bowman stared at the map as he mentally reviewed the plan. ‘It’s risky,’ he said.
‘So is getting in a car. Or going on a date with Tiny.’
‘This thing could easily go south.’
‘The plan isn’t up for debate.’
‘What if there are BGs in the building, though? Seguma might have some of his bodyguards with him.’
‘We think that’s unlikely.’
‘He’s the president. He’ll want some sort of protection.’
‘Not at this meeting, he won’t.’
‘The president doesn’t trust his BG team,’ Casey explained. ‘He’s getting paranoid in his old age. Believes some of them are spies. He sacked a bunch of guys on his team six months ago.’
Mallet said, ‘As you know, Seguma has gone to great lengths to keep this meeting secret. That means keeping his BG team out of the loop as well. The smart money is on him going to this thing alone.’
‘They won’t want to meet with the Russians alone, John.’
‘I agree. It’s possible that Lang might have one or two of his heavies with him,’ Mallet conceded. ‘Minders. Dumb muscle he can trust. But we’re talking about one or two guys. He won’t have any more than that.’
‘And if he does?’
‘You’ll have to stay fluid. React to any unexpected threats. Staying flexible comes with the territory, especially when you’re fighting gangsters.’
‘I’m beginning to realise that.’
They talked through the courier plan for a solid thirty minutes. Webb broke out the laptop and brought up the exterior of the apartment complex on Google Street View, pointing out the various entry and exit points, the position of the team in the vehicle. Bowman studied the original architectural drawings for Lang’s apartment, making sure he’d committed it to memory. Then they switched their focus to the situation around the building: roadworks, tourist hot spots, likely traffic jams, rush-hour times, parking zones. From time to time, Mallet asked Bowman if he had any questions. There was no negativity, no judgement. The rest of the team had spent the past seven days pulling the op together. They knew the whole thing backwards. As the newcomer, Bowman was having to absorb every aspect of it at lightning speed.
‘What about our kit?’ he asked.
Mallet leaned back, giving the floor to Loader. ‘Tiny will explain. That’s his area of expertise. Along with lessons in how to repulse women, of course.’
Loader gave him a look and stabbed a finger at the southern edge of the principality.
‘A local UKN will RV with us at the heliport here,’ he said. ‘He’ll drive us to the car park beneath the football stadium. We’ll collect our kit, then drive straight to the target location.’
‘Are we packing heat?’ asked Bowman.
‘Pistols. One for you, one for Patrick. But you shouldn’t need them.’
Mallet said, ‘We need to discuss rules of engagement.’
He leaned forward and looked Bowman hard in the eye.
‘Let me be very clear. Your weapons are to be used as a last resort only,’ he said. ‘If you’re danger close, if rounds are coming in, you may engage. But don’t go plugging anyone if you can help it. The clean-up would be a nightmare, it’s the last thing we need. And do not engage the cops under any circumstances.’
‘I know the drill,’ Bowman said. ‘I’ve gone through all this stuff before in the Wing.’
‘It’ll stand a repeat,’ Mallet growled. ‘We’re not in the business of making trouble with the cops. If you’re arrested, don’t kick up a fuss. Keep your mouth buttoned and sit tight. Don’t make up some cock-and-bull story. It’ll only encourage the police to get curious, and we don’t want that. Six won’t like it, either. As soon as you’re captured, the balloon will go up and someone from the Embassy in Paris will come down. You’ll receive full legal representation. The Whitehall folk will do their usual string-pulling behind the scenes. You’ll be back on a flight to London before you know it.’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’
‘It’s a routine hard arrest,’ Loader said. ‘We do this kind of stuff all the time in the Cell.’
‘There’s no such thing as routine, Tiny. Not in the Regiment.’
‘It’s hardly Rorke’s Drift, is it? We’ll be back home and on the beers a few hours from now.’ He gave Bowman a cheeky nudge and a wink. ‘Me and you can hit the town together. Check out the talent.’
‘You won’t see much,’ Mallet said. ‘Tiny clears out the bars faster than a bomb threat.’
‘That’s not true,’ Loader protested. ‘I ain’t the tallest, but I’ve got a way with the ladies.’
‘Aye, I suppose you have. It’s called scaring them shitless.’
Bowman shared a laugh with Mallet. Even Webb permitted his lips to form a smile. Casey stared at them with a look of dismay.
‘Let’s crack on,’ Mallet said. ‘There’s still plenty of ground to cover.’
Casey took over the briefing. She handed Bowman a piece of paper with a list of phone numbers and a map detailing various pick-up locations. The numbers belonged to individuals the team could contact in the event of an emergency. There was a guy with a small boat in the Fontvieille district, she said. A do
ctor across the border in Nice. A pair of retired spooks living in a town forty miles to the west, in Trigolins.
They discussed escape plans and rat runs. Emergency pick-up procedures. Locations in the area, safe places where they could hide out for a day or two. Worst-case scenario stuff. Bowman tried to memorise every detail, but he struggled to focus. The lack of sleep was catching up with him. His tired body craved another hit of opiates. Something to keep him wired. He was sweating badly under his shirt. He took a pull of bottled water, tried to refocus.
There was time for one last general run-through around the conference table. Everyone talked through their specific roles, making sure that there were no grey areas, no loose ends. Then the pilot announced they would shortly be making their final approach to Côte d’Azur, and Webb and Loader quickly gathered up their belongings and carried the bags back to the aft compartment. Casey cleared the papers from the table and hurried over to the office to feed them into the shredder.
While they were busy, Bowman levered himself up from his seat and quietly slinked off to the toilet.
The cabin shuddered as he moved down the aisle. Bowman almost lost his balance, recovered as the jet began pitching and plunging through the air. On the speaker, the pilot explained they were going through a patch of turbulence. Bowman ignored the request to stay seated and staggered into the toilet, his palms greased with sweat. He felt like shit. The cravings had been getting worse for the past hour, but he’d soon be feeling normal again. He dipped a hand into his jacket pocket, removed the cap on the base of the pill crusher and tipped one of the tablets into his shaking hand.
The cabin jolted.
The plane banked hard to the right, throwing Bowman off-balance. He lurched backwards, crashed against the door, steadied himself against the countertop, then looked up in despair as he saw the pills clattering around the basin. Like balls on a roulette wheel. He stumbled over to the sink, panicking. The plane pitched heavily again as he clawed at the pills, but they disappeared down the plughole before he could scoop them up.
A few moments later, the plane stopped shuddering.