by Chris Ryan
‘Does Mike know about this deal with the Russians?’ asked Mallet.
Seguma shook his head. ‘Lang told me not to mention it to anyone else. My mistake. If I had sought Mr Gregory’s advice, I am sure he would have argued against it.’
‘We can trust him, then?’
‘Without question.’ Something hard glinted behind the president’s eyes. ‘Mr Gregory would never betray me. Unlike some.’
He gazed through the floor-to-ceiling windows at Lang, scowling.
‘Can we rely on him to hold the fort until we get there?’ asked Casey.
‘Mike is as tough as they come,’ Bowman said. ‘He used to come out on patrols with us in Iraq and Afghanistan. A lot of Ruperts would have hung back in the safety of the ops room, but not Mike.’
Casey stared at him. ‘You really rate this guy, don’t you?’
‘I’m just telling you what he’s like.’ He nodded at Seguma. ‘You don’t have to worry, sir. Your family will be safe until we get there. Mike is a top soldier.’
‘You don’t need to remind me of his qualities.’ The corners of his mouth curved upwards. ‘Mr Gregory has been very loyal to me over the years. He has proved himself many times.’
‘Those extra bodies from the Presidential Guard will even things up a bit,’ Mallet said.
‘Agreed,’ said the Voice. ‘Between yourselves, Mike Gregory and the Presidential Guard, you should have enough firepower to defend against anyone who might take a pop at you. More than enough.’
‘We’re going in half-cocked,’ Bowman said. ‘That’s never a good idea.’
The Voice said, ‘We’re not asking you to go in and save the country. All you’ve got to do is secure the family and wait for the strike force to arrive. How hard can it be?’
Bowman clenched his jaws but said nothing.
‘Someone should reach out to Gregory,’ Casey said. ‘Find out what’s going on at the palace, how secure it is, how many men are there.’
Mallet nodded. ‘First rule of reconnaissance. Get a report from the man on the ground.’
‘Or a woman. We’re not living in the eighteenth century anymore, John. In case you hadn’t noticed.’
The Scot smiled condescendingly. ‘Is that what passes for a sense of humour in Surrey these days?’
‘Our team will contact Mike,’ the Voice said in its artificial automated tone. ‘Leave it with us.’
Bowman said, ‘We’ll need hardware as well. Longs, pistols, grenades, plate armour. The full package. If you want us to hold the palace, we’re gonna need to be tooled up to the eyeballs.’
‘Consider it done.’
‘What are we going to do with Lang?’ Webb said, glancing from the laptop to the balcony. ‘You can’t expect us to bring him with us to Karatandu.’
‘Our team will make alternative arrangements for his return to London. I’ll discuss that with John after this call. Then you need to get moving. Make your way across the border and head for the private terminal at Nice. We’ll send you an update as soon as the diplomatic jet is on its way.’
‘Any questions, guys?’ asked Mallet.
No one spoke.
‘As of this minute, rescuing Mr Seguma’s family is our top priority,’ the Voice said. ‘I cannot stress that enough. If we lose the family, we lose the country. Do not fail.’
The line dropped. Bowman listened to dead air for a few moments. Then Mallet slid the laptop back into the sleeve, dug out his phone and pushed up from his chair.
‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on the blower with Six. Discuss Davey Boy’s deal.’
‘This isn’t right,’ Bowman said. ‘We shouldn’t be letting Lang off the hook. He’s a traitor.’
Mallet shot him a savage glare. ‘If I want your opinion on how to handle the interrogation, I’ll let you know. Until then, keep your fucking thoughts to yourself. Got it?’
Bowman began to argue, then thought better of it. ‘Fine,’ he replied sourly.
‘Good,’ Mallet straightened. ‘Right, you lot. We’re on the road as soon as I get off the phone. You. Smart-arse. Send a message to Tiny,’ he ordered Casey. ‘Tell him to bring the car round and find somewhere to park near the entrance. We’ll be out in a few minutes.’
Webb said, ‘What about the heavy? We can’t leave him here.’
‘He’s coming with us,’ Mallet said. ‘We’ll deliver him to the UKN waiting for us en route to the airport.’
‘Why don’t we just clip the guy?’
‘Can’t. Five wants to question him in relation to several unsolved gangland murders.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘We’ll get rid of the hardware and the kit at the RV, too.’
‘It’ll be a tight squeeze. Seven of us in the wagon.’
‘The big bastard goes in the boot. No other way.’
Mallet stomped over to the balcony door and wrenched it open. Lang shot up from his chair. The faint drone of city noise drifted up from the streets far below.
‘Inside,’ Mallet ordered him.
Lang slid past him and stepped back into the living room. He glanced at Seguma, then slid his gaze across to Mallet. ‘What’s the news with my deal? It’s taking fucking ages.’
‘I’m discussing it with Six now. They’re about to sign off on it.’ He smiled thinly.
‘Then what?’
‘You’ll travel with the rest of us to the airport. Some other poor sod will escort you back to London. Now wait here like a good boy.’
Mallet looked over at Webb, his face scrunched in thought. ‘You’ll have to change out of those clothes. Grab some of Lang’s gear. Whatever you can find that broadly fits. Where’s your courier kit?’ he asked Bowman.
‘Lang’s closet.’
‘Grab it. The document wallet too. Make sure we leave nothing behind. Not a trace, do you hear? I want everything removed, right down to the last skin cell.’
‘Why? What’s the big deal?’
Mallet didn’t answer. His phone hummed. He stepped outside, pulled the balcony door shut and leaned against the railing as he took the call. Bowman and Webb left Casey on guard duty and darted out of the living room. They jogged over to the master bedroom, ducked into the walk-in closet. Webb changed out of his courier kit and threw on a striped shirt, cream jacket and a baseball cap with the crest of an East London football team on the front. Bowman stuffed their discarded gear into a Herschel holdall, trotted back down to the hall, snatched up the document wallet from the side table and shoved it into the same bag. He dumped the Herschel by the door. Rushed over to the staff quarters, dragged Roidhead to his feet. Hustled the guy into the living room.
Moments later, Mallet stepped back through the balcony door. Lang stood up, straight-backed, like a defendant at a murder trial, waiting for the judge’s verdict.
‘Good news,’ Mallet said. ‘Your worries are over, Davey. All is forgiven. The deal has just been signed off. You’re going into police protection.’
‘About time. Now how about getting rid of these cuffs? They’re killing me.’
Mallet nodded at Webb. ‘Do the honours, Patrick.’
Webb left the room. He came back a few moments later clutching a pair of scissors and cut through Lang’s cable ties. Lang rubbed his sore wrists and grinned at the soldier.
‘Cheers, son.’
Webb glared at him.
‘Don’t say much, do you?’
Webb made no reply. He stared at Lang with barely concealed contempt. Lang stepped closer to him.
‘You should watch yourself, sunshine. I might start to think you don’t like me. I knew another feller once who didn’t like me. Know what happened to him?’
Webb still said nothing. Lang took a forefinger and slowly traced a line across his neck, as if slashing it open with an imaginary knife. Then he took a step back and smiled. ‘I’m just joking, you daft prick.’
Mallet said, ‘Step outside with me for a moment, Davey.’
‘Why?’ Lang asked.
‘Our
friends at Six are sending a team to pick you up. They want to discuss your return to London. They’ve got a few questions.’
Lang swaggered confidently outside, a renewed spring to his step. Mallet beckoned him over and rested against the stainless-steel railing as he dialled a number. Lang waited while Mallet uttered a few words to the person on the other end of the line. Then Mallet said to the caller, ‘OK.’
He hung up. Tucked his phone into his back jeans pocket. Lang frowned.
‘What the—’
Then Mallet pushed him over the edge.
Lang screamed and fell backwards. He seemed frozen in mid-air for a split second, arms flailing, mouth open in horror, before he plummeted from view.
From below came the dull thump of a human body pancaking against metal.
A car alarm shrieked.
Bowman raced over to the balcony. He leaned over the edge and peered down at the side street below. Lang had crash-landed on top of a Porsche Cayenne parked at the roadside. His twisted body was slumped across the bonnet, arms and legs bent at unnatural angles.
‘Jesus.’ Bowman stared disbelievingly at Mallet. ‘Jesus Christ.’
Mallet grinned wickedly. ‘You didn’t think Six would let that bastard get away with it, did you?’
A sudden chill ran through Bowman. Did Six plan to kill Lang all along?
Did Mallet lie to us?
He glanced briefly down at the street. Figures appeared on the balconies of the surrounding apartment blocks, rubbernecking the scene. A cyclist leaped off his bike and raced over to Lang, shouting at a middle-aged guy in a suit to call an ambulance. Several metres further away, an old man with a shopping bag stared up at the apartment block. And pointed.
‘Move,’ Mallet snapped. ‘We’re getting the fuck out of Dodge.’
Bowman pushed away from the railing and hurried inside. Casey and Webb both stared at the Cell leader with blank, neutral expressions. Neither of them seemed particularly surprised by the killing. Seguma stared out at the terrace, his face stamped with shock and fear.
‘Sir, we’re leaving,’ Mallet said. ‘Now.’
The president quickly cleared his expression. ‘Yes, OK.’ He spread his lips into a pitiless smile. ‘I never really trusted that worthless dog anyway.’
‘Grab the heavy,’ Mallet said to Bowman. ‘Let’s go.’
Bowman took hold of Roidhead and shoved him roughly towards the front door. The team hastened down the hallway and squeezed into the private lift. Roidhead started bricking it as they rode the car down to the underground car park. Which was unsurprising. He had just seen his boss nosedive to his death. He was in the presence of stone-cold killers. People who spoke his own language, but with far more skill and ruthlessness. He pleaded in a small, panicked voice as Bowman marched the guy over to the Range Rover and sprang the boot. The rest of the team piled inside the vehicle as Bowman pressed the Ruger against the heavy’s stomach.
‘Get in,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Don’t kill me. Please. I’ll talk.’
‘You’re definitely gonna talk,’ Bowman said. ‘There’s some people in London who are very interested in finding out what you know. Now get in.’
He rammed the gun harder against Roidhead, the metal tip digging into his ribs. Roidhead climbed awkwardly inside the void, rolling onto his side and bringing his legs up, his knees tucked against his chest. Bowman slammed the boot shut then jogged round to the driver’s side door and scooched behind the wheel. Seguma sat hunch-shouldered in the back seat between Casey and Webb.
‘Dump the guns in the bag,’ Mallet said.
Bowman and Webb slid the clips out of their Rugers and then pulled back the sliders, checking the chambers. They dropped the pistols, holsters and magazines into the Herschel. Mallet stashed the bag in the footwell.
‘Get us out of here,’ he said.
They climbed the exit ramp and swung right. Loader had parked the Mercedes E-Class forty metres further along, in a loading bay in front of a post office. Bowman pulled up in front of the estate, kept the engine ticking over. Casey and Webb jumped out, ran over to the E-Class and hopped inside. Then both vehicles took off again. The Range Rover in the lead, Loader immediately to the rear, a two-vehicle convoy. A swift manoeuvre, taking no more than three or four seconds. And also necessary. Five guys crammed together in a single car would look suspicious. They might catch the eye of an overenthusiastic police officer. Too risky, especially with a thug in the boot and guns in a bag. Safer to spread the team out between the two motors.
Beyond the central reservation, on the other side of the road, an ambulance screamed past the late-morning traffic, sirens flashing. Two police cars raced after the ambo. Bowman caught sight of them in the rear-view as they hit the gap in the central reservation. They crossed over into the opposite lane, screeched to a halt in front of the apartment block. A small crowd had formed in the street outside.
‘Stick to the limit,’ Mallet said. ‘And for fuck’s sake don’t run any lights.’
Bowman kept the speed below thirty miles per hour as he made for the border. For the entire journey he was the world’s most diligent driver. He stopped at every set of lights, obeyed every line of the local highway code. Seguma sat silently in the back, his cane resting on his lap. Mallet punched a set of coordinates into the satnav. The RV point with the UKN. A lay-by, en route to the airport.
There was no border crossing. They simply followed the road signs pointing to Nice, steered into a one-way tunnel bored into a sheer rock wall, and when they came out the other side they were back on French soil. Sixteen miles from the airport, according to the satnav. A forty-minute drive through winding coastal roads and city traffic. Which meant they would arrive at the private terminal building shortly before noon.
Bowman stuck to the cliff road as it snaked around the mountainside, roughly parallel to the coastline. Loader, Casey and Webb tailed close behind in the E-Class. Several minutes later, Mallet’s phone vibrated with an incoming message. He scrolled through a long message, hit Delete, put his phone away.
‘Any word on that jet?’ Bowman asked.
‘It just landed at Northolt. There’s going to be a short turnaround before it can take off again. They need to refuel the jet, procure our weaponry and kit, ferry the diplomats over.’
‘How long before it gets here?’
‘Three hours or so, Six reckons. We should be in the air by three o’clock at the latest.’
Bowman glanced at the digital clock: 11.26. The jet would land in Nice soon after two o’clock. There would be another brief turnaround before they took off again. Then a seven-hour flight to Libreville, followed by a sixty-minute connection to the only international airport in Karatandu. Both countries were in the same time zone as France, he knew. They would touch down in Karatandu at around 23.00.
‘What’s the word on the coup?’ he asked.
‘No news. It’s all quiet at the moment.’
‘Not for much longer.’
‘No.’
Bowman gripped the wheel tightly. ‘Let’s hope this thing doesn’t kick off before we land. I’ve had enough nasty surprises for one day.’
Mallet stared at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Have you got a problem?’
‘I thought we were going in to arrest Lang, not chuck him off a balcony.’
‘The plan changed.’
‘Is that really what happened?’
‘Don’t get shirty with me, lad. The decision was down to Six. We were following orders. There’s nothing more to it than that.’
‘I just want to know what’s going on.’
‘You’re part of the Cell now. This is how we work. You’ve got to stay fluid. React to situations as they happen. Things can change very quickly in our line of work.’
Bowman glanced sidelong at him. ‘The other guys didn’t look too surprised to me.’
‘They’ve been on the Cell for a while. They know the score. You don’t fight criminals with kid gloves
.’
‘Still, you could have warned us before you threw Lang over the balcony.’
Mallet made a face. ‘Christ, don’t tell me you feel sorry for the bastard.’
‘I couldn’t give a crap about Lang,’ Bowman said. ‘I’m talking about the watch he was wearing. That was worth half a million quid, John.’
Mallet chuckled. ‘I’ll buy you a fake Rolex when we get back home. Call it even.’
They drove on. After a couple of miles, Mallet pointed to a rest stop at the roadside. Which was really just a patch of worn blacktop with an overflowing bin and a chicken-wire fence, bookended by tufts of dense vegetation. Beyond the fence, the ground sloped sharply away towards the glittering sea. A grey Volvo XC90 SUV was parked up on the far side of the lay-by. Bowman looked round but saw no other motors or people in the area.
‘Pull over,’ Mallet said.
Bowman pointed the Range Rover into the lay-by and skid-halted to the rear of the XC90. Loader pulled up a couple of metres behind, loose gravel crunching beneath the tyres. Bowman cut the engine.
Mallet said, ‘Everyone out.’
Boots thudded on the worn blacktop as the three men got out. They waited while a familiar face debussed from the XC90. Bowman recognised him immediately. The guy with the terrible comb-over. The UKN they had met in the underground car park.
He lumbered over to the wagon, handed Mallet a set of keys.
‘I was told to expect a live package,’ he said.
‘He’s in the boot,’ Mallet said back.
‘Hardware?’
‘Holdall in the front passenger footwell. Everything’s inside.’
‘Anything I need to worry about?’
‘The guns haven’t been fired. Nothing to link to any crime.’
‘The wagon?’
‘It’s hot. You’ll need to dispose of it.’
‘Keys?’
‘Inside.’
They swapped cars. Comb-over plodded over to the Range Rover and squeezed himself behind the wheel. Bowman, Mallet and Seguma took the Volvo. The president spread himself on the back seat, the soldiers sat upfront. Mallet tapped icons on the built-in satnav, entering the address for the airport. The Range Rover pulled away from the lay-by and motored west. Bowman waited until it was out of sight around the bend. Then he steered onto the mountain road, Loader and Webb and Casey shadowing them in the E-Class.