Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  ‘No clue. But it always seems to find us. That’s for fucking sure.’

  THIRTEEN

  Hogan spent another thirty minutes running through the rest of the surveillance equipment: matchbox-sized bugs they would be expected to plant in Lansbury’s hotel room, a room-sweeping device that had been modified not to pick up any bugs that Bald and Porter had planted. Bugs that had been fitted inside light bulbs. Hogan ran through the operation of the false-screen iPhones and the iPad rebroadcasting system a few times, making sure that Bald and Porter had committed everything to memory. Bald got a kick out of watching Porter struggle to get to grips with the various bits of kit. The guy’s really starting to show his age, thought Bald. Hogan told them he would be on hand at the camp for the rest of the evening, if the guys had any further questions. He wrapped up the briefing and stepped out of the room. A few minutes later, Strickland returned.

  Four o’clock in the afternoon.

  Two hours since the original briefing.

  Six hours until the hit on Lansbury’s BG team.

  ‘How did it go with Hogan?’ Strickland asked them between long puffs on her e-cigarette. Bald caught a whiff of the vapour. It smelled vaguely of peppermint.

  ‘Cracking,’ Porter said. ‘If this op goes sideways, there’ll always be a job for us at PC World.’

  He smiled at Strickland. Bald just stood there, rolling his eyes at Porter’s lame joke. I don’t know what’s sadder, he thought to himself. The fact that this sober prick thinks he’s funny, or that he thinks he’s got a chance with our handler.

  ‘What’s the plan now?’ Bald asked.

  ‘We wait,’ Strickland replied. ‘Now that you’ve been fully briefed, there’s nothing else to do until our friends take out the bodyguards.’

  ‘When’s that happening?’

  ‘Tonight. Five hours from now, we think. Once Lansbury’s bodyguards are out of the picture, we’ll be in a holding pattern until the word filters out through the news channels about the incident. Then Lord McGinn will make the call to Lansbury, recommending you for the job.’

  Porter shot the agent a questioning look. ‘How are you lot gonna make sure that story hits the airwaves in time?’

  ‘There’s a journalist at the Mail Online. She’s working for us. She’s in Budapest right now, covering Fodor’s re-election campaign. She’s going to be nearby when the attack takes place. Then she’ll write up a small story and reach out to Lansbury for comment. Once the story is posted, we’ll reassemble here and wait for the call to come through from Lansbury’s office.’

  ‘That could take fucking ages,’ Bald growled.

  ‘We don’t think so. Lansbury is deeply paranoid, like many of his populist friends. He’s going to be alone, in a foreign country, without protection and with a big meeting coming up. He won’t be dragging his feet about getting in some replacements.’

  ‘How long until we hear back?’ asked Porter.

  ‘We’re hoping to get you out there within twenty-four hours of the hit. Ideally, you’ll be on a flight to Budapest tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Assuming he takes the bait,’ Bald muttered.

  ‘He will. Trust me. It’s under control.’

  ‘No offence, but I’ve heard that before.’

  Strickland stared at Bald for a beat. ‘For an ex-SAS man, you don’t seem to have much faith in your employer.’

  ‘Force of habit. I’ve worked with you fuckers enough times in the past and had my fingers burned. Why should I trust a word you say? In fact, I’m starting to wonder why I bothered coming back.’

  Strickland stared at Bald. ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘Just giving it to you straight,’ Bald countered, staring right back at the MI6 agent. ‘Which is more than Six has done for me in the past. I’m fucking done listening to the same old promises.’

  ‘You can’t walk away.’

  ‘Watch me. Besides,’ Bald added, ‘this op has got clusterfuck written all over it. I’m not risking my neck just to put some right-wing dickhead behind bars.’

  ‘But what about the job we promised? The corporate gig?’

  ‘I’ll take my chances on Civvy Street.’ Bald held up his hands. ‘No offence, lass. You seem solid enough, like. But as long as Ayatollah Moorcroft is running the show, it’s a hard no from me.’

  He turned to leave.

  Strickland said, ‘Walk away now, and you’ll regret it.’

  ‘Nah,’ Bald replied. ‘Don’t think I will.’

  ‘Moorcroft won’t be around for long,’ Strickland called after him. ‘He’s on the way out.’

  Bald stopped. Turned back round to face Strickland and looked searchingly at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The old regime is being shown the door. The old guard is stepping aside. Including Moorcroft. I’m his replacement.’

  That drew a confused look from Porter. ‘I thought you were Moorcroft’s number two?’

  ‘That’s what David likes to think.’

  Bald frowned at her. ‘Why didn’t you tell us about this in the briefing?’

  ‘We haven’t made it official yet,’ Strickland explained in her soft Glaswegian accent. ‘The directors agreed that it would be advisable for me to shadow David until my appointment is formally announced. Let me see how things work, get a feel for the place. David likes to act as if he’s still in charge, and I suppose technically he is. But he’s on borrowed time. You’ll be reporting to me directly soon enough.’

  ‘Doesn’t change anything,’ Bald said.

  ‘Actually, it does. Right now, I’m the only friend you’ve got. David wasn’t keen about bringing you back into the fold. And he’s not the only one. There were plenty of colleagues warning me not to touch you. They said you were damaged goods.’

  ‘Why bring us back, then?’

  ‘Because I worked with Tannon, a long time ago. She said you were reliable despite your faults. You’re not worried about rules and regulations. You get the job done.’

  Bald stared at Strickland, as if seeing her for the first time. She obviously didn’t fit the white-male-privilege profile of many of her Vauxhall colleagues. A Glasgow-born woman, trying to make it in a world dominated by the old boys’ network at Vauxhall. No wonder she looked restless, Bald thought. She would have had to fight tooth and nail to get ahead at Six. There would have been endless late nights, weekends at the office, supreme dedication. Against his better judgement, Bald found himself admiring her.

  ‘Whatever bad blood there is between you and David doesn’t concern me,’ Strickland continued. ‘All I care about is bringing down Lansbury. If I lose, the likes of David will close ranks. They’ll use my failure as an excuse to undermine me. I’ll spend the rest of my career fighting a rear-guard action. But if we get a big win, you two have got a friend for life. Help me, and I’ll do what I can for you. No lies, no bullshit.’

  Bald spread his hands. ‘That’s all I’m asking for.’

  ‘Good.’ Strickland smiled at him. ‘David might argue otherwise, but I think there’s still a place for men like you at Vauxhall, you know. Believe it or not, there aren’t many of you left.’

  ‘I’m not that old. Porter’s older than me. He’s so ancient he can remember the Big Bang.’

  Strickland kept on smiling at Bald. ‘Are we good?’

  Bald nodded. ‘You think you can get us on Lansbury’s team?’

  ‘We’ll take care of that,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. Just focus on getting on his good side once you’ve got the job. The more he takes a shine to you two, the more likely it is he’ll hire you for the long term. And the better our chances of obtaining the evidence we’ll need to put him away for the rest of his life.’

  Porter said, ‘You really think that Lansbury is a traitor to his country?’

  ‘One hundred per cent. We’re as certain as we can be. Our source inside the FSB is bulletproof, but we still really need that smoking gun. You two are our best hope of getting it.’

  ‘Don�
��t worry. We’ll get the fucker.’

  Strickland’s phone buzzed. She dug it out, frowned at the screen. ‘I need to take this. I’ll see you later. I suggest you go over your preparations this evening. And catch some sleep while you can.’

  ‘When are we expecting the call?’

  ‘Sometime after midnight. The duty sergeant will be monitoring the phones. He’ll notify us as soon as the bodyguard hit has been confirmed.’

  She promptly turned on her heel and stepped out of the room, phone glued to her ear. Bald watched her disappear from view and nudged Porter, grinning at him.

  ‘At least they left us with the Doris instead of that bus-pass wanker Moorcroft. I know who I’d rather be cooped up with in that briefing room tomorrow.’

  ‘Fancy your chances, do you?’ Porter sniffed.

  ‘Not my type, mate. I get plenty of action as it is. Should have seen some of the talent I was ploughing in Mexico.’

  Bald glanced at his G-Shock watch. ‘I’m gonna get a lift down to Hereford, pick up a couple of suits for this job, then head down the range for a bit. Join us for a pint after at the Red Lion?’

  Porter hesitated, then shook his head. ‘You go on ahead. I’m bushed. They’ve set us up with a room here. Think I’ll just hit the cookhouse, then get my head down for a stretch.’

  ‘Come on, mate. Have a beer. Just the one.’

  ‘We’re on duty, Jock.’

  ‘Two-pint rule,’ said Bald.

  They had both done time in the SP Team at Hereford, the Regiment’s counter-terrorism unit. Back then the standby team had been allowed to have two pints while on rotation: enough to deal with the boredom while remaining ready to deploy at short notice.

  ‘I don’t think it works like that now,’ Porter replied quietly.

  ‘It does in Jock Bald Land.’ Bald gave him a dirty grin. ‘Who knows, we might even find a couple of Hereford groupies down there. Come on. Just one drink.’

  ‘I can’t, Jock. I told you already, I’m done with all that. I don’t touch that stuff anymore.’

  Bald stepped back, sneering with contempt. ‘Bloody hell, at least when you were a pisshead you were fun to be around. Now look at you. Can’t even let your hair down with a couple of drinks. Pathetic.’

  ‘Says the bloke who hasn’t got two pennies to rub together.’

  ‘I’d rather be poor than a sad old tosser. You’re supposed to be a Blade, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I still am,’ Porter growled. ‘I’ve still got what it takes.’

  ‘Could have fooled me, mate. The Porter I used to know was a hard bastard. Couldn’t handle his drink, maybe, but he was one of the toughest lads in Hereford. This?’ Bald gestured at Porter, his face screwed up in contempt. ‘This is just fucking lame.’

  Porter glowered at Bald and stepped towards him, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists.

  ‘Listen, I’m off the shit and that’s the end of it, all right? So don’t try and tempt us off the wagon. I’m doing well for myself these days . . . no thanks to you.’

  Bald stood glaring at him for a long moment. Then his expression crumbled, and he roared with laughter. Porter felt anger rising like bile in his throat. ‘What’s so fucking funny?’

  ‘I’m taking the piss, you daft bastard,’ Bald said. He continued laughing heartily as he shook his head. ‘Fuck me, do you really think I’d try and tempt you back on the drink? After everything you’ve been through?’

  Porter’s expression darkened. ‘You were joking?’

  ‘Of course I bloody was, mate.’ Bald punched his mucker playfully on the shoulder. ‘Christ, the number of times I’ve helped you kick the booze in the past, why would I want you to drink again? Only a twisted bastard would do something like that.’

  Porter felt his cheeks burning with rage as he stared daggers at Bald. ‘Then why did you say all that stuff about having a cheeky pint?’

  ‘I was testing you, you idiot. Seeing if you really meant what you said about getting clean. You’ve told us that enough times in the past and slipped off the wagon again, I wanted to see if it was more of the same old bullshit.’

  Porter felt his blood boiling, resisted an urge to lamp Bald in the face. Jock knew how to push his buttons, that was for sure. He let the anger pass and took a step back from his mucker, still glowering at him.

  ‘You’re a bastard, Jock.’

  ‘Maybe. But it was worth it for the look on your ugly mug. Fucking priceless, that.’

  Porter shook his head. ‘I meant what I said before. I’m not drinking any more, and that’s final. Just worry about keeping your own hands clean from now on.’

  Bald inclined his head at Porter, crinkling his brow. ‘You trying to suggest something?’

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. Everyone in Hereford knows you’re a dodgy fucker. Always on the take, always looking for a way to line your own pockets.’

  ‘No idea what you’re talking about,’ Bald said.

  ‘Yeah, you do. Just like you know about them rumours floating around Hereford about you getting involved in cocaine smuggling, nicking diamonds. That business with the gold. It’s like an addiction for you, Jock.’

  ‘You can’t prove any of that stuff.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Porter conceded. ‘But if you try any of that shite again, you’re gonna put us both in trouble.’

  Bald stepped into Porter’s face. ‘What I get up to doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it does. If you get caught with your fingers in the till, we’ll both take the blame. I worked hard to rebuild my career. My reputation. After all the shit I’ve been through, I’m not gonna let you screw us just because you saw a chance to make some dirty money.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘No, mate. Just a friendly word of advice.’ Porter stared hard at his mucker, a warning look in his pale eyes. ‘Keep your nose clean on this one. I’m serious. Because if you try and pull any shit, me and you are gonna have a fucking problem.’

  FOURTEEN

  Five hours later, Derek Lansbury’s two bodyguards walked out of the five-star Royal Duna Hotel and stepped into the gloom of the late evening in Budapest.

  Gary Steer and Mick Hutton had spent another long day guarding their client. The man they had been hired to protect had kept up a punishing schedule since arriving in Hungary earlier that week. Practically non-stop. The guy was a proper Duracell bunny. There had been working breakfasts and lunches, endless meetings with businessmen and government officials, handshakes with fringe figures on the far right, photo ops and TV interviews, and appearances at campaign rallies with the head of state.

  At seven minutes past ten, Lansbury had finally called it a night. While he was tucked up in bed, firing out late-night tweets, Hutton and Steer had a few hours to themselves. A chance to grab some fresh air, stretch their legs and enjoy a late-night supper at their usual spot. Grouse about how much they hated guarding Lansbury. All the crap they habitually took from him.

  Steer was the younger of the two bodyguards. He’d spent twelve years with Special Branch before he’d decided to go private, working close-protection jobs. At first sight he didn’t look much like a bodyguard. He was lean and wiry, rather than bulky. Steer kept himself in good nick, unlike some of the lads who’d quit the force. An early morning jog through the streets, followed by a high-intensity weight circuit in the hotel gym. Crunches, kettle bell swings, pull-ups. Then a protein shake for breakfast. At the age of forty-three he wasn’t a Greek god anymore, but he wasn’t far off. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, had the same short-back-and-sides haircut as in his days on the force and he wore a Rolex Submariner watch.

  The Rolex was a gift to himself, after landing the contract to guard Lansbury. He could afford it now, after all. He was making good money. Better than anything he’d earned on the force.

  The other guy, Hutton, was six years older than Steer and about fifty pounds heavier. He had the filled-out look of an athlete gone to seed. He was all-over b
ig, an immense slab of a man, with shoulders as wide as football pitches and hands the size of shovels. His arms hung by his sides like meat from a pair of hooks. With his wrinkled face and comb-over he looked like a middle-aged accountant who had been lifting weights at the gym.

  The pair of them got on well enough, although they could sometimes get on each other’s nerves. Steer felt that Hutton could be a huffy fucker at times, moody and lazy. Hutton was often irritated by the way Steer conducted himself, acting as if he was the next James Bond. But the two of them were professional enough not to let their differences get in the way of doing their job.

  Besides, they took plenty of shit from their principal, who they both agreed was an arrogant, slimy prick. They were also fairly sure he was shagging a local mistress, with his occasional unscheduled disappearances across town. Meetings he was adamant Hutton and Steer could not attend. Now they were both looking forward to a few hours away from his company.

  They breezed past the valets and porters loitering outside the hotel and hung a left down the wide main thoroughfare. The Royal Duna was situated in the political and financial heart of Budapest, amid a sprawl of Gothic Revival buildings, casinos and government offices. The local equivalent of Westminster, thought Steer. They were half a mile from the Hungarian Parliament and two hundred metres due east of the River Danube. The view was impressive, even at night. Lights twinkled on the stone-built suspension bridge linking the metropolitan east with the more genteel western side of the city. On the far side of the river, maybe half a mile away, Steer could make out the brightly lit dome of Buda Castle. Like something out of a medieval fairy tale.

  They continued down the thoroughfare for forty metres and took another left, turning up a dimly lit side street. Standard operating procedure dictated that the bodyguards shouldn’t venture more than a hundred metres from the hotel in any direction. The place they frequented was technically too far away, a New York-themed steakhouse situated two hundred metres east of the Royal Duna Hotel. But the food portions were generous, and it was cheaper than the over-priced sushi bars and brasseries lining the riverfront, with a good selection of beers on tap. Plus, it was still comfortably within walking distance of the hotel. They felt it was an acceptable compromise.