by Chris Ryan
‘You sure you don’t fancy a pint with that, mate? Slug of vodka, maybe?’
Porter shook his head. ‘No, Jock. I told you, I’m off that shit for good.’
‘How long has it been, now?’
‘Two hundred and seventy-three days,’ Porter replied without a moment’s hesitation. Pride in his voice. ‘I haven’t touched a drop for nine months.’
Bald took a hit of his Diet Coke. ‘Just as long as it stays that way.’
‘What are you saying, mate?’
‘Nothing. But we both know what happens when you’re stressed. Your first instinct is reach for the top shelf.’
‘It won’t happen again.’
‘Good. Because I’m not picking up the slack for you again. Or have you forgotten what happened last time?’
Porter’s face hardened. ‘Course I fucking haven’t.’
He looked away, casting his mind back to the Russia op. Back then, Porter had slipped. He’d given in to the dark voice in the back of his head, the one telling him to have a drink. He’d been pissed during a firefight. Almost got himself killed.
Porter had struggled with the demon drink for as long as he could remember. After the hostage-rescue mission in Beirut went wrong, he had hit the bottle big time. Ever since, it had been a constant battle between the two voices inside his head. One telling him to stay strong, not to go down that road again, to stay sober. The other whispering in his ear at his weakest moments, when he was angry or depressed or bored, urging him to have a drink. Just the one. A livener. Something to take the edge off. But Porter knew he couldn’t go there.
I can never have just the one drink. Jock might be a bastard, but he’s right.
For me, it’s all or nothing. Sobriety, or oblivion.
Porter had chosen the former. But he had to be constantly vigilant, alert to temptation. He was careful never to be around alcohol, or big drinkers. And now he was about to go on an op with one of the biggest boozers in the history of the Regiment. But he was determined not to fail.
I won’t let myself down, Porter swore to himself. Not this time. I’m not going to give that Scottish wanker the satisfaction of proving me wrong.
‘This isn’t going to be a stressful op anyway,’ he said. ‘You heard what Six told us. Straightforward job, low risk, every spare local asset ready to support us. And if it goes south, we’ve got that heli in Graz on standby.’
‘True, but we’re gonna be spending the next few months on dull-as-fuck BG duty. Plenty of idle time on our hands. All it takes is one moment of weakness.’
‘It won’t happen,’ Porter repeated angrily. ‘It took me years to put my life back on track. I’m not gonna piss it away now.’
Bald studied his mucker closely, then changed the subject. ‘Let’s just hope Lansbury has a loose tongue. The sooner Vauxhall can pin something on him, the less time we’ll have to bodyguard the twat. I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan on spending the next six months working a protection job.’
Porter shrugged. ‘If that’s what it takes.’
‘You’re really up for this?’
‘The bastard is a traitor. He’s corrupt.’
‘So are most of them tossers in parliament. Bunch of hand-job merchants.’
‘Lansbury is different. He’s on another level. He’s selling us out to the Russians, for fuck’s sake.’
‘So what? Half those MPs are probably on the take in one form or another.’
Porter narrowed his eyes. ‘Don’t you want to nab the fucker?’
Bald said, ‘If Lansbury has committed a crime then he deserves to go down for a long stretch in Wormwood Scrubs, picking up soap from the shower floor. But don’t fool yourself into thinking he’s the only one up to no good. They’re all the same, mate.’
‘Most MPs aren’t working for the Russians. They’re not committing treason.’
‘If he’s guilty. We don’t know that.’
‘Six wouldn’t send us out there unless they were sure. The fucker’s guilty. I’m sure of it. And he’s gonna pay.’
Bald tilted his head to the side. ‘Why do you give a toss whether Lansbury is dodgy or not? He means fuck-all to you.’
Porter stared at his mucker with a bemused expression. ‘The guy is a fucking liar, Jock. He’s up there on stage at rallies, telling everyone that he supports our military, and all the while he’s doing shady backroom deals with the Russians. The bastard is pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes.’
‘That’s just politics, mate. What else do you expect?’
‘It’s not right.’ Porter looked down at his food, his hands trembling. ‘I’ve had enough of those tossers in Westminster hoodwinking us. They’re all at it. They go on TV, tell everyone how proud they are of our lads and what they’re doing, and then they go behind our backs and vote for big cuts to the armed forces, putting our lads’ lives in danger. They sell everyone this big idea of a modern streamlined army, and it’s just a bollocks excuse for disbanding all the regiments and laying off some poor sods. They give the generals a cosy retirement job in procurement, selling duff kit to the MoD, while they let ex-squaddies sleep rough on the streets. It’s a bag of bollocks, Jock, all of it.’
‘Christ, if you feel that strongly about it, why don’t you get off your soap box and become an MP?’
‘Fuck off, mate. You might be all right with Lansbury taking backhanders from Moscow while he poses next to veterans, but I’m not.’
‘Guess I’m just a realist,’ said Bald.
‘No, you’re a cynic. Only interested in lining your own pockets. Bet you don’t even have a problem with what Lansbury is doing.’
Bald shook his head forcefully. ‘That’s bollocks. I’m just as determined to nail this bastard as you are. Don’t pretend any different, just because you’ve got a bee in your bonnet about some dodgy politicians.’
Porter gave a dry laugh. ‘Do me a favour. The only reason you’re desperate to put Lansbury behind bars is so you can land that corporate gig.’
‘Someone’s got to look out for number one. Might as well be me.’
Bald polished off his last morsel of burger meat, washed it down with a slug of Diet Coke.
‘Besides,’ he went on. ‘If our cover gets blown, those muppets at Vauxhall aren’t going to be doing us any favours.’
Porter stopped picking at his chips, looked up at Bald. An expression of unease played out on his face. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
Bald tapped the side of his head. ‘Think about it, mate. Why did they recruit us for the job in the first place?’
‘Because we’re expendable.’
‘Partly that, aye. But we’re also legally convenient. We’re not serving SAS officers. If this thing goes Pete Tong, they can claim that we’re civilian contractors, with no connection to the security services. That takes MI6 out of the loop.’
‘I’m in L Det,’ Porter said. ‘I’m still registered.’
‘Part-time, TA, weekend warrior. Six would just say that you did your ninety days and then fucked off. They had no idea what you were up to on your time off.’
‘You think they’re setting us up?’
‘I think they’re covering their tracks. Watching their own backs, in case this whole thing turns into a clusterfuck. I know I’d be doing the same, if I was in Moorcroft’s position.’
Porter stared at his half-eaten plate of food, his appetite vanishing. Bald was right, he realised. If it came out that the British Army had been spying on a sitting British MEP, there would be a legal and political shitstorm. Questions would be asked in parliament. The higher-ups would want to know who else was involved, who had authorised the operation. Heads would roll. Six would find itself at the centre of a scandal that would cause major embarrassment, domestically and abroad. By co-opting Bald and Porter, MI6 could keep themselves at a discreet distance from the mission. Argue that the two men assigned to guard Derek Lansbury were independent contractors, acting on their own instruction. B
ald and Porter would be thrown to the wolves. And Moorcroft would enjoy his Cotswold retirement in peace.
Things are changing, Strickland had said. We mean it this time.
That was a lie, thought Porter. Not a deliberate one. She seemed fundamentally a good person. But he knew how Vauxhall worked. The faces might change, but the mentality always stayed the same.
‘So that’s it? We’re on our own?’
Bald considered, then shook his head. ‘I think Strickland meant it when she said she’d have our backs. She’s not one for bullshit. She’ll give us the heads-up if there’s an attack planned on Lansbury.’
‘But she’s not the one calling the shots,’ Porter said. ‘Moorcroft is. For now.’
‘Exactly. If someone gets word of what we’re up to, then Strickland can’t save us. The people above her will take the decision to pull the plug. And you and me will be fucked.’
Porter left the rest of his food. He could feel his stress levels rising again. The voice was whispering in his ear. Goading him.
You’re gonna be on edge for months, guarding a guy you hate, hoping that no one compromises the operation. We both know you can’t get through that without a drink.
Just the one. A double-measure of vodka. For old times’ sake.
Porter drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes and did what he always did when he craved booze. He took the voice and put it in a box and shoved it to the back of his mind, where it couldn’t torment him.
Forty minutes later, their flight was announced.
Ten hours after they had received the call at Pontrilas, Bald and Porter were in the air.
SEVENTEEN
They slept through most of the flight and landed at Ferenc Liszt Airport at twenty-eight minutes past midnight. The terminal was practically deserted. Bald and Porter waved their passports at the border guard, grabbed their luggage from the carousel and strolled through a set of sliding doors leading into the arrivals hall. A loose throng of tourists, taxi drivers and relatives stood around the waiting area. Border guards patrolled the hall, dressed in dark-blue uniforms and garrison caps, armed with black truncheons and Heckler & Koch USP pistols. Bald ran his eyes across the cluster of faces in front of him, searching for the guy they had been told to look for.
Freya Jansen had sent a message to Bald’s phone shortly before their flight had taken off, written in the same blunt tone as her phone manner. Instructions for when they touched down in Hungary.
Driver will meet you at Arrivals. He will be holding a placard with your name on it. Car is a silver-grey Mercedes S-Class, licence plate HVZ-619. Driver’s name is Tibor. I will be waiting for you at the hotel. I will be wearing dark trousers & shirt & green coat. Any problems, call me. F.
It took Bald about five seconds to identify their driver. A fifty-something man in grey slacks, white shirt and jacket, with a buzz cut and green eyes that were too close together. Bald pointed him out to Porter and the pair of them trooped over and briefly introduced themselves. The driver gave no indication that he spoke English. He simply turned and led them out of the terminal building, down a flight of steps towards the short-stay car park. At one o’clock in the morning the temperature was in the low single digits. A chill breeze hushed across the car park, cold blasts of it running through Bald’s hair as he approached the car.
The Blades folded themselves into the back of the Mercedes and settled in for the ride. The car was spacious and quiet and smelled of fresh leather. They drove north for twenty minutes, past a poorly lit landscape of office blocks, warehouses and abandoned factories. After eight miles they swept past the national football stadium and then the city opened up in front of them, like something out of a pop-up children’s book. They rolled down grey tree-lined streets flanked by scenes of faded grandeur and Soviet brutalism. Crumbling apartment blocks stood shoulder-to-shoulder with imposing Communist towers and corporate glass-and-steel structures. The whole story of the twentieth century, right there.
The driver arrowed north for another mile and made a left. Rolled past a long stretch of worn-down hotels kebab shops and discount supermarkets, and then they hit the inner sanctum. The business district. As if the city’s grim past had been acid-washed and replaced with something shinier and more gentrified.
The cheap takeaways gave way to swish Italian restaurants. The supermarkets became designer fashion stores. The apartment blocks transformed into boutique hotels. They could have been in New York or Paris. Traffic was heavier here, even in the dead hours. Yellow taxis hogged the sides of the road. A surprisingly large number of people were out, given the lateness of the hour. Stag groups, couples taking a stroll along the Danube, punters emerging from the casino or heading out to one of the nearby strip clubs.
They turned right after the casino, the driver easing off the accelerator as they neared a grandiose five-storey hotel on their right. The Royal Duna Hotel. Bald recognised it from the maps he had studied back at Pontrilas. Even from the back seat of the S-Class, the building looked impressive. Like the official residence of some minor European royalty.
They debussed from the S-Class, unloaded their luggage from the boot and entered a marble-floored lobby with high ceilings and decorated with mosaics and modernist artwork. Soothing classical music pumped out of unseen speakers.
They made a beeline for the far end of the lobby. A smartly dressed woman worked the night shift, standing behind a walnut reception desk as wide as a train carriage. There was a seating area to the left of the reception, an arrangement of designer lounge chairs and sofas circled around dark-wood coffee tables. A petite woman with a bob-cut of platinum blonde hair sat at the rearmost table, eyes fixed on her phone screen. She was dressed in plain grey trousers and a black satin shirt, with a bright green wool coat draped across her lap. The only person in the lobby other than the staff. At the sound of Bald and Porter’s approaching footsteps the woman looked up, killed the screen on her phone and stood to greet them.
Bald said, ‘Freya Jansen, right?’
The woman nodded. Her eyes darted quickly from Bald to Porter, as if trying to decide which one was which. They settled on Bald.
‘You must be Jock,’ she said. She sounded even more polished in person than on the phone.
‘That’s me, aye.’ Bald had included a brief description of himself and Porter when replying to Jansen’s text message. ‘This is my partner, John Porter.’
‘Pleasure,’ Porter said, thrusting out a hand.
Jansen didn’t shake it. Her eyes had dropped to Porter’s disfigured left hand. A look of disapproval crossed her face. ‘Your CV didn’t say anything about a disability.’
‘It’s not a disability,’ Porter replied through gritted teeth. ‘Just an old injury I picked up on the job.’
‘I don’t care how it happened, you should have told me. Derek doesn’t appreciate surprises, you know.’
‘It won’t affect my performance, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘I sincerely hope not.’ She took a deep breath and sighed irritably. ‘Well, at least you both made it. Thank God. Derek will be relieved. He’s been terribly upset by this whole business.’
Bald looked Freya Jansen casually up and down. She had a small round mouth that drooped at the edges, skin the colour of milk and slanted eyebrows that looked painted on. Not unattractive, thought Bald. A little flat-chested for his tastes. But he could work with that. Her eyes kept wandering off as she spoke, glancing impatiently around the room. She gave the impression of having a million other places she would rather be.
‘Where’s the great man now?’ he asked.
‘Asleep. I thought it best not to disturb him, after what happened yesterday. I’ll formally introduce you in the morning. He’ll be up bright and early. Big day ahead, what with the conference.’
‘Conference?’ Bald repeated.
‘More of a private gathering, actually. Derek and his political allies. They’re meeting tomorrow night.’
‘Here
? In Budapest?’
Jansen shook her head. ‘At a private residence outside the city. Derek is overseeing the proceedings personally, as a matter of fact. He’ll be spending tomorrow making sure everything is in order. Dealing with any last-minute hiccups, sorting out the travel arrangements, that kind of thing. Going to be a bit of a manic day.’
Bald exchanged a knowing glance with Porter. ‘Looks like we got here just in time, then.’
‘That depends. If you were hoping for a nice slow start to get yourselves bedded in, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.’
Porter said, ‘How long is this conference going on for?’
‘Just tomorrow evening, as far as I know. Derek will be staying here for a few days afterwards while he assists Mr Fodor in his re-election campaign. Then it’s a week in DC and three days in London. Then on to Brussels.’
‘Busy man,’ Bald said. Because he felt like he had to say something.
‘That’s Derek for you. Likes to stay on his feet, does everything at a hundred miles an hour. He’s got extraordinary stamina for a man of his age. You’ll learn that yourselves, soon enough.’
There was a light of enthusiasm in her eyes when she talked about her boss. Bald wondered if there was something else going on there.
‘We’ll have to go over his schedule,’ he said. ‘Me and Jock will need to know every relevant detail. Where he’s going, what the plans are, who he’s meeting with and when.’
Jansen narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘What do you need all that information for?’
‘The more we know, the better prepared we are to keep him safe.’
‘We’ll discuss all of this tomorrow, when you meet Derek. He can decide what you need to know, and what you don’t.’
‘What’s the score in terms of transport?’ asked Porter.
‘We have the hotel chauffeur. He drives Derek around.’ She peered at him. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘We’ll need a hire car to follow him with. One of us will ride with the principal, the other lad will stay close behind in case of trouble. Basic SOP, that.’