Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  Above all, McGinn had a reputation as a man of immaculate morals. Deeply religious and devoted to his country, always putting the national interest above personal ambition. It was a reputation that McGinn had come dangerously close to losing recently. Until someone from MI6 had approached him and quietly suggested that they might be able to make the pictures of him in a gimp suit disappear.

  McGinn sipped his Earl Grey tea and listened to the headlines.

  The main story was an update on the security preparations ahead of the G7 summit in Loch Lomond. The security operation was costing millions, apparently. Protestors were gathering in London ahead of a mass demonstration.

  There was a piece about anti-Semitism in the Labour Party.

  Another story about Brexit.

  Forest fires in Canada.

  Climate change, trouble in the markets.

  McGinn sipped his tea.

  The seventh headline was the one he had been told to wait for.

  A terse six-sentence report of a violent attack on the bodyguards working for Derek Lansbury. The attack had taken place in the streets of Budapest the previous evening. A suspected mugging, according to early reports. Both men had been taken to hospital with serious injuries. There was no indication that the mugger knew the identity of the men in question or had been targeting Lansbury himself. Hungarian police said that their investigation was ongoing. Mr Lansbury was in the country to offer political support to his friend, the Hungarian strongman Márton Fodor.

  McGinn finished his tea.

  Three minutes later, he picked up the phone.

  Scrolled down to a number in his Contacts list, hit Dial.

  There was an international ringtone. Four long beeps, and then a voice answered on the other end. ‘Alan, old chap,’ said the voice. ‘I was wondering when you might call.’

  ‘Derek, my God.’ McGinn hoped his voice sounded anxious without over-egging it. ‘How are you? I literally just heard the news on the radio.’

  Lansbury grunted. ‘Bloody shaken up, as you can imagine. It’s not every day that your security detail gets knifed in the streets. Can you imagine what would have happened if I’d been there at the time?’

  ‘Thank God you weren’t.’ McGinn swallowed. ‘Have they caught the culprit, by any chance?’

  ‘Not yet. The prime minister called earlier to personally assure me they’re on the case. They think the attacker was a migrant from Djibouti or somesuch.’ Lansbury snorted derisively. ‘And they wonder why people like me enjoy such widespread support. I give it two days until the Guardian runs an article sympathising with the bastard.’

  ‘And your bodyguards?’ McGinn enquired. ‘How are they?’

  ‘Incapacitated. They’ll be out of action for months, I’m told.’

  ‘My God.’

  ‘I know, it’s a bloody shambles. Makes me look like a flaming idiot too, hiring a pair of halfwits who don’t know how to defend themselves.’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling, actually.’

  ‘Oh?’

  McGinn paused. He took a deep breath, then dived in. ‘I know this is all rather sudden, but if you’re in need of replacements, I’ve got just the chaps. Two fellows who would do a very good job.’

  There was an unsettling pause, followed by a deep sigh. ‘Look, I appreciate the gesture but I’ve got several of the big agencies on the case. They’re going to take care of it.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But I’ve used these two personally in the past, on overseas operations,’ McGinn said. ‘They come highly recommended.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Ex-SAS men. They’re infinitely better qualified than those two you’ve been using. Put it this way, they wouldn’t be getting mugged in the streets.’

  ‘I see.’ McGinn could hear what sounded like fingers drumming on a table on the other end. ‘And these two ex-SAS men . . . are they available now?’

  ‘I believe so. They’re up in Hereford at the moment, I’m told. Just come off a big job.’

  There was another voice in the background, young and female, vying for Lansbury’s attention. The line went quiet for a moment and then Lansbury came back on, sounding harried.

  ‘Look, I’m afraid I’m rather busy here. I’m about to do an interview live with Fox News. Can’t this wait until later?’

  ‘Not really. These men I mentioned, Derek, they’re highly capable and—’

  ‘Are you taking a cut for these chaps or something? You’re giving me the hard sell here.’

  Lansbury’s tone was matey, good-humoured, but McGinn detected an undercurrent of irritation. He changed tack.

  ‘I don’t give a damn about these chaps, Derek, I’m concerned about you. Believe me, you can’t skimp on this stuff. It only takes one madman with a weapon and a determination to make a name for himself. If you’re out there alone, without protection . . . well, who knows what might happen?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know that.’

  Lansbury went quiet again. More background chatter. McGinn felt his shoulders deflate. For a moment he worried that he’d lost the argument. Then Lansbury came back on the line and said, ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you send the contact details for your men through to Freya? She’ll give them a call, size them up. If they’re as good as you say they are, we’ll work something out.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll do that right away.’

  ‘Good man. Oh, and let’s catch up when I’m back. Drinks at the Club.’ More voices in the background. Lansbury raised his own. ‘I’ve got complimentary tickets to the South Africa test at Twickenham next month. Bring Catherine and Bertie along, why don’t you. Should be a cracker.’

  McGinn found himself nodding enthusiastically. ‘I’d love that, very much.’

  There was a beat of silence. ‘Thanks for looking out for me, chum. I do appreciate it, you know.’

  ‘Anytime, old chap.’

  McGinn set down the receiver. Relief flushed through his system.

  It was done.

  He turned to the man in the off-the-rack suit, standing in the doorway. The agent Vauxhall had sent.

  ‘Was that good enough?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the man from Vauxhall replied. ‘That’ll do just fine.’

  Two hundred miles away, Bald, Porter and Strickland were back in the same briefing room as before.

  They had regrouped in the room shortly before six o’clock that morning. Bald and Porter had been awoken by the duty sergeant a few hours earlier, letting them know that the hit on Lansbury’s BG team had gone down as planned. The second knock had come at around five-thirty. The same duty sergeant, telling them that Vauxhall had received confirmation that the Mail Online story was about to be posted. Bald and Porter had quickly washed and dressed, packed their kit into their holdalls and grabbed breakfast in the camp cookhouse, forcing down mouthfuls of grease and carbs before they joined Strickland in the briefing room.

  Strickland looked like she had been up for most of the night. Which probably wasn’t far from the truth, thought Bald. She was dressed in the same dark trouser suit and shirt as the previous day, and her face looked drawn and tired. She was talking in urgent machine-gun bursts on her phone, taking long draws on her e-cigarette and helping herself to constant refills from a pot of coffee. Her foot was doing the tapping-against-the-floor thing, Bald noted. Her anxiety was understandable. They were dealing with a fluid situation. There were a lot of pieces on the board. A lot of factors to consider. She was having to respond to events as they happened.

  Bald and Porter had a series of maps of Budapest spread out in front of them on the conference table. They were orientating themselves with the city, marking out key locations, identifying routes to and from the Royal Duna Hotel. Lansbury’s favourite haunts. Places he had been known to go to for supper or for business meetings. Nearby public transport links. Tourist spots. Along with the physical maps, they had Google Maps blown on up the screens of a pair of thirteen-inch laptops. One window showed the Royal D
una on Street View. Another displayed a satellite view of a nearby Japanese restaurant Lansbury frequented. Regiment SOP before deploying to an unfamiliar environment: get your bearings, so you don’t have to waste valuable time on the ground orientating yourself. When they landed in Budapest, Bald and Porter wanted to be able to hit the ground running.

  Their bags were packed – clothes, wash bags. Bald had picked up a pair of suits from a chain store in Hereford. Black trousers, sports jackets, plus two plain white shirts and black ties and a pair of polished black lace-ups. All the kit they had been handed by the Scaley had been divided between their holdalls: clip-on GPS trackers, small sticky mics, modified phone and laptop adapters. Plus the SAS challenge coins and the passport-sized 2TB hard drives. They had their passports, a few hundred quid in pounds and the equivalent sum in Hungarian forints. Everything was set and ready to go.

  All we need now is the call.

  Strickland got off her phone. She took another long puff on her e-cig. Poured herself her fourth cup of coffee of the morning and said, ‘That was our asset in Wroxham, at Lord McGinn’s house.’

  Porter looked up from the map, rubbing the bridge of his nose. ‘And?’

  ‘He says McGinn made the call to Lansbury a few minutes ago. Lansbury sounded a bit shaken up by the whole thing, but he’s confident that his PA is going to call.’

  ‘Did he say when?’

  ‘No, but the fact that Lansbury is unsettled is good news for us. The more panicked he is about this attack, the more likely he is to want to get a new bodyguard detail in place soon.’

  ‘Unless he decides to go with someone else,’ Bald said.

  ‘That won’t happen,’ Strickland replied firmly. ‘We’ve been through this already. McGinn assured us that he has Lansbury’s complete trust.’

  ‘He would say that, wouldn’t he? You’ve got him by the balls. He’d say anything to get out of a tight spot, just like the rest of them posh arseholes in the House of Lords.’

  ‘McGinn will persuade Lansbury to hire you two. I’d bet my life on it.’

  ‘You’d better be right,’ said Bald. ‘Because if he doesn’t convince Lansbury we’re the ones for the job, then this mission is fucked before it’s even got off the ground.’

  Strickland looked away, chewing anxiously on her bottom lip. The young woman from Maryhill, Glasgow, taking on the old boys’ network, needing a big win. She turned back towards Bald and said, ‘Give it three hours. We’ll hear from Lansbury’s office by then. I’m sure of it.’

  Which turned out to be wide of the mark, but not by much. At twelve minutes past ten, the false-screen phone Bald had been given vibrated with an incoming call. There was a long mobile number on top of the screen that Bald didn’t recognise, prefixed by a country code. +36. The dialling code for Hungary.

  ‘This is it,’ Strickland said, nerves creeping into her soft Scottish voice. ‘Remember what we discussed. Stick to the script. Don’t sound too enthusiastic and try to act surprised at getting the call.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ Bald said brashly. ‘I used to do this kind of thing for a living.’

  He tapped the green icon on the lower-right corner of the screen. Accept. Put the call on speakerphone, so Porter and Strickland could listen in.

  ‘Hello?’ Bald said.

  ‘Am I speaking with John Bald?’

  The voice belonged to a woman. Young and professional, with a cut-glass accent so sharp it could have chopped fruit.

  ‘Aye,’ said Bald. ‘That’s me, lass. The one and only.’

  The signal kept jumping around. Four bars, then three. Then two. Then back to four again. There was some kind of intermittent droning noise in the background, horns beeping. Traffic. He figured the PA was in a car. With Lansbury, perhaps. Being chauffeured to some meeting, maybe.

  The woman said, ‘My name is Freya Jansen. I work in the office of Derek Lansbury. I was given your details by a close friend of Mr Lansbury. Do you have a moment, by any chance?’

  Jansen did most of the talking. She was curt and to the point. Mr Lansbury’s security detail had fallen victim to an unfortunate street mugging the previous evening, she said. Perhaps Mr Bald had seen the item on the news? To cut a long story short, there was an immediate opening on his BG team. Two bodyguards, for an initial four-week period, possibly lasting for up to six months. The pay was £500 a day, non-negotiable. Mr Bald would receive a float for expenses and full medical insurance. They would need him to fly out at once, if he was interested. The same day, preferably.

  ‘Mr Lansbury is a very busy man, and at considerable risk due to his outspoken stance on a number of issues,’ Jansen said, as if she was reading from a script. Or perhaps her boss was listening in. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate our need for a prompt response.’

  ‘You’re in luck,’ Bald said. ‘I just got off a big job, love. But I’ll have to check with my partner first, see if he’s free as well.’

  ‘That would be . . .’ Jansen paused. Bald heard the rustling of papers. ‘Mr John Porter, correct?’

  ‘Aye, that’s him. Give us your details and I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘You can reach me on this number. But I would appreciate a prompt response. Mr Lansbury doesn’t like to be kept waiting, you know.’

  Bald said that he understood and would reply within the next fifteen minutes. He hung up. Looked over at Porter, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Well, Mr Porter? Are you available?’

  Porter laughed easily. The tension between them began to evaporate. Even Strickland relaxed, half-smiling, her foot no longer tapping anxiously.

  Bald waited exactly nine minutes. Then he called Jansen back, gave her the good news. She perked up immediately. She took their passport details and said she would book them both on the 20.45 British Airways flight to Budapest, leaving from Heathrow that evening. Their tickets would be waiting for collection at the information desk. Time was of the essence, Jansen said. They needed Bald and Porter out in Hungary at once.

  ‘I’ll send you a message to confirm you’re booked on the flight,’ Jansen went on. ‘Once you arrive in Budapest there will be a car waiting to take you to the hotel. We’re checked in at the Royal Duna Hotel. I’ll text you the details before you’re due to take off.’

  ‘Got it,’ Bald said. ‘Can’t wait.’

  Jansen said a few more words about how grateful Mr Lansbury was for their services, and how much he was looking forward to working with them. Which Bald was fairly sure was complete bullshit. He said a few similarly meaningless words in return.

  Then he killed the call.

  Porter turned to him, grinning. ‘Easiest job interview I’ve ever had, that.’

  ‘The Jock Bald charm, mate. Never fails.’ He nodded at Strickland. ‘Looks like you were right. Whatever your man said to Lansbury, it did the trick.’

  Strickland ditched the smile. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourselves. That was the easy part. This is when the hard work really begins.’

  SIXTEEN

  They bugged out of Pontrilas twenty-three minutes later. Bald and Porter changed into their suits and ran through a series of last-minute checks on their surveillance equipment. At the same time, Strickland made a series of calls. First she rang through to the duty sergeant to arrange for a car to pick them up. Then she called Moorcroft to update him on the situation. A necessary measure, she explained to Bald and Porter. Although Strickland would be their daily point of contact during the op, it was important to keep Moorcroft in the loop. It would hurt his dignity if she tried to assert control while he was still in the job. She wished Bald and Porter good luck, said that she was rooting for them, and that if they needed anything then they should call her. Strickland was tough and straight talking and completely without front. Everything that Moorcroft wasn’t, in fact. Bald found himself liking her more by the minute. And she was a Glasgow lass. You couldn’t ask for a better handler.

  Eleven minutes later, Vickers rang up to the briefing room and announced that
their driver was waiting for them. Bald and Porter grabbed their kit, nodded at Strickland and left the surveillance block.

  The car was a Vauxhall Insignia. A dated model, the silver bodywork worn and dented in places and lined with scratches. One of the range cars, Bald presumed. Vehicles that had been blown on previous ops and were given a new lease of life on the advanced driving ranges at Pontrilas.

  They drove from the training camp up to Hereford train station. Bald and Porter paid cash for a pair of one-way tickets to London Paddington. Which cost them roughly the same as a discount flight to the Canary Islands. They took the next direct train and arrived in central London three and a half hours later, in the thick of rush hour. They threaded their way through a swarm of fast-moving commuters, rode the Heathrow Express and debussed at the stop for Terminals 1, 2 and 3. Then they collected their tickets from the BA desk, deposited their luggage in the hold and headed straight for Departures.

  As part of their cover, they kept all their receipts. Bald and Porter were posing as independent contractors, Strickland had reminded them: they would be expected to claim back any monies they had spent on train fares and food while travelling to the job.

  They had an hour to kill before their gate was announced, so they took a table at an airside pub, a garishly lit sports-themed bar with football and rugby memorabilia lining the walls. A handful of business types sat at the tables, sipping pints of lager, checking their phones or watching the news on the massive TV fixed to the back wall.

  Bald ordered a cheeseburger and side of thick-cut fries, along with a Diet Coke. Porter went for the battered cod, chips and mushy peas, plus a glass of tap water. Bald watched his mucker carefully.