Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  ‘SOP?’

  ‘Standard operating procedure.’

  ‘I see. Leave it with me. I’ll take care of it.’ She glanced down at her watch. ‘First, let’s get you checked in. You’ll be staying in the same room that Gary and Mick used.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The previous security detail. They were booked into a room a few doors down from Derek. Twin room. I assume that’s acceptable.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘In the adjoining room to Derek. He works very long hours, as you might imagine. He’s very much in demand these days. Keeping up with his schedule is a full-time job.’

  ‘I bet it is.’

  Bald looked at Jansen closely. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her hair was ruffled. He got the impression that she was doing more with Lansbury than merely going over his itinerary and making him coffee. A lot more.

  They walked with Jansen over to the reception, waited while she barked orders at the woman behind the desk. The receptionist tapped away at her computer terminal. A moment later a dwarf-like bellboy sprang out of some unseen nook, took Bald and Porter’s holdalls, dumped them on a metal luggage cart and wheeled the cart into a service lift. An impressive feat, for a guy who stood at around four and a half feet. Jansen took a pair of key cards from the receptionist and led Bald and Porter over to the lift. They rode the next one up to the third floor and paced down the corridor until they stopped outside the door to Room 319.

  Jansen swiped open the door, handed over the key cards to Bald and Porter. A moment later the dwarf bellboy wheeled into view, pushing along the luggage trolley. About three times as tall as the guy himself. He unpacked their holdalls from the cart, lugged them inside the hotel room, placed them on the floor next to the twin beds. Bald gave the guy a five-hundred-forint tip. About £1.50 in UK sterling. The dwarf’s face lit up. He pocketed the note, bowed and paced back down the corridor. Jansen stepped outside the room and pointed to another door, fifteen metres further down the corridor.

  ‘That’s Derek’s room,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in the next room along.’

  ‘It’s just the two of you here?’ asked Porter.

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘No reason. Just assumed he’d have a bigger team with him. What with the gathering and everything.’

  ‘Normally, yes. But tomorrow’s event is a very private affair. Derek doesn’t want word of it getting out. His parliamentary aides don’t even know about it.’

  ‘What’s with all the secrecy?’

  ‘Derek and his friends are worried about protests,’ Jansen said. ‘They want a low-key meeting. Minimal disruption. The last thing they need is the usual rabble of anarchists, socialists and militants causing a fuss outside the venue. Understandably so.’

  ‘This conference. Big deal, is it?’ asked Bald.

  Jansen stared at him. ‘You ask a lot of questions for a bodyguard.’

  ‘Just curious.’

  ‘Well, don’t be. You’re hired muscle, not political consultants. All you need to do is look hard and keep your mouths shut.’

  She smiled politely, but there was a coldness to her voice. A young PA in the orbit of power, over-protective of their principal and suspicious of anyone trying to muscle in on their territory. Porter knew the type well. They took shit from their bosses and unloaded it on to the poor sod on the next rung down. Which just so happens to be us, he thought.

  He spread his hands. ‘We’re not looking for conflict here. We’re just trying to build up a picture of the principal’s security arrangements. The more we’re in the loop, the safer he is.’

  Jansen stood up straight. ‘I wouldn’t worry yourselves too much about the conference. Should be a straightforward engagement, and I’ll be on the phone if there are any problems.’

  ‘You’re not going with him?’

  ‘Me? No.’ Jansen sniffed. ‘Derek will be attending alone. I’m to stay here and hold the fort until he returns.’

  Porter detected a clear note of disappointment in her voice. And maybe bitterness too.

  ‘You’ll be expected to keep this information to yourself, of course,’ she added. ‘There’s a confidentiality clause in the contracts you’ll sign, non-negotiable. Breach it and you’ll be removed from the team immediately.’

  ‘Don’t worry, love. You can trust us.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so.’ Jansen glanced at her watch again. ‘Right, I’m off. If you have any problems, message me. Otherwise I’ll see you in the lobby tomorrow morning. Seven o’clock. You’ll begin your duties and meet Derek then.’

  Jansen turned on her heels and started to beat a path up the corridor towards her room. She stopped, half-turned and looked back at the two ex-Blades. ‘Oh, one more thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Bald.

  ‘Your CV. It says you left the SAS in 2011, but there’s no record of you working in the private sector until 2013. What were you doing for those two years?’

  Bad shit, thought Bald.

  Drug-trafficking. Gunrunning. Killing.

  Working for some very bad people.

  He glimpsed Porter staring at him out of the tail of his eye. The migraine sparked up between his temples again. ‘I took some time off. Did a bit of travelling and the like. Thought I’d see the world.’

  ‘I see.’

  The look on her face implied she didn’t. Jansen watched him for a moment longer. Then she turned and headed off towards her room.

  Bald watched her for a beat. He didn’t like her attitude, but he still wouldn’t have minded a crack at that arse.

  He followed Porter into their twin room. Entered a space the approximate size of a Kensington flat, decorated in shades of cream and ivory, furnished with a polished black desk, built-in wardrobes and two single beds. One of the smaller rooms in the hotel, probably, but still a step up from the dumps Bald was used to staying in. The bathroom was constructed from dark marble and stocked with complimentary grooming products from brands Bald had never heard of. A pair of French windows on the far wall overlooked the Danube. There was a Nespresso machine and a minibar filled with miniature bottles of Bombay Sapphire, Courvoisier and Johnnie Walker Black Label. All of his favourites. Bald nodded approvingly.

  ‘Now this is more like it. Say what you like about our man Lansbury, but the bloke has got good taste. If this is how he likes to travel, I could get used to this.’

  ‘Makes you wonder, though,’ said Porter.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Lansbury is on an MEP salary, and yet he’s set himself up here. Plus our own wages and expenses, and his staff. Must be costing him a small fortune.’

  ‘He’s got that weekly talk show on American radio. Maybe they’re paying him a tidy packet.’

  ‘Or he’s getting paid by someone else.’

  ‘The Russians, you mean?’

  ‘Who else?’

  Bald considered. ‘Could be. But if this is what working for the Kremlin does for your bank balance, I can see the appeal.’

  ‘He’s selling us out, mate. The bloke’s a fucking criminal.’

  ‘And a rich one.’

  Porter sniffed. ‘That doesn’t make it all right.’

  ‘No, but you’ve got to hand it to the man. If he’s committing treason, he’s making a success out of it.’

  There was a trace of admiration in his voice. Porter looked at Bald and once again wondered about his mucker’s loyalties. Can I really trust Jock? Will he have my back, if it comes down to it?

  Bald disappeared into the bathroom to get cleaned up. Porter dug out his iPhone and went through the sequence he’d memorised to bring up the encrypted screen. It took him a few attempts to get it right. He typed a new message to the one number stored in the address book. The message read, We’re in. All good so far. Meeting BROKEN RECORD tomorrow.

  He hit send. There was a thirty-second delay, and then Strickland replied. Any news on BROKEN RECORD’s plans?

  Gathering taking place tomo
rrow evening, Porter wrote. Somewhere outside city. Very private, according to PA.

  Porter waited, and then Strickland wrote back, Good work. Any idea what BROKEN RECORD is doing there?

  Not yet, Porter typed. Will find out more tomorrow.

  There was another delay before Strickland wrote back again. Okay. Watch yourselves.

  Porter wrote back, Will do. Then he put the phone to sleep.

  He grabbed a bottle of sparkling water and fired up the TV. Toasted himself. Another day of sobriety.

  Porter sipped his expensive water and soaked up the news. CNN was running a story about the US president’s latest rant. He was standing in front of a podium at a rally somewhere in the Midwest. Behind him stood a heaving crowd of supporters, hollering and cheering his every word. They were overwhelmingly white, Porter noted. And old. Many of them wore baseball caps with slogans about making America great again. Others held up placards with slogans like Drain The Swamp! The president was angrily denouncing NATO, railing against Germany and other allies he accused of not pulling their weight. The rally seemed like a big event, thought Porter. Large crowd, blanket media coverage. The kind of event where Lansbury would have appeared on stage to introduce the president. Or perhaps he’d be in a TV studio somewhere, defending his close friend.

  So why is he out here in Eastern Europe, meeting with a bunch of fringe populists and fascists?

  Lansbury is a Russian agent. Whatever it is he’s planning it must be big. But what is it? Porter asked himself.

  He couldn’t think clearly. He was tired from the day’s travelling and the long hours spent in the briefing room at Pontrilas. At some point Porter finally closed his eyes and sank into a shallow and restless sleep.

  EIGHTEEN

  Bald and Porter rose at six o’clock. They took turns to shower and shave and dressed in their matching dark suits. Porter took one of the clip-shaped GPS trackers from his holdall, remembered what Hogan had told them about best practice and planting a second bug on the target, and grabbed one of the smaller coin-sized listening devices. He made sure the rest of the equipment was hidden from view at the bottom of the holdall, zipped it shut and secured it with a standard travel padlock. Then he followed Bald out of the room and down the stairs to the lobby.

  The meeting with Lansbury had been set for seven o’clock, Jansen had said. Which gave them half an hour to grab breakfast. They made their way over to the brasserie, gave their room number to a waitress wearing a frozen smile and helped themselves to platefuls of scrambled eggs, bacon and tomato, wholegrain toast and bowls of fruit, washed down with orange juice and a pot of coffee. At five minutes to seven they headed back out to the lobby and sat down at one of the spare tables while they waited for Lansbury and his PA.

  A minute later, Bald’s phone buzzed with a new message from Jansen.

  Running late. L will be down shortly. F.

  ‘Fucking typical,’ Bald snarled after he read the message out to Porter. ‘We’re here bang on time, and the principal is pissing about.’

  ‘Did she say how long they would be?’ asked Porter.

  Bald shook his head. ‘They’ll keep us waiting for ages yet, mark my words. Always the bloody same with these people.’

  They weren’t tense or anxious about being introduced to Lansbury. Both Bald and Porter had worked as bodyguards for several high-profile figures in the past. But they also knew that close-protection jobs were often frustrating. Hours spent sitting around, twiddling your thumbs while you waited for the principal to emerge. This is the first morning on the job, thought Bald, and Lansbury is already getting on our nerves.

  Thirty minutes passed. There was still no sign of Lansbury. Bald checked his phone again. Nothing from Jansen. An hour passed. The lobby began to fill up. The early morning checkouts. People with bills to settle and flights to catch. Businessmen heading off to meetings, tourists hoping to steal a march on the big tour groups. Bellboys scurried back and forth with luggage, eager for a tip. A steady stream of guests flowed through the lobby. Bald heard a mix of accents and languages. Mandarin and French and German, the occasional American.

  A second hour passed. Bald checked his phone again. Messaged Jansen. Are you on your way down? A minute later she wrote back: Sorry. Held up. Down soon.

  ‘Bastard is taking his merry fucking time,’ Bald mumbled.

  Porter laughed cynically. ‘I’d get used to it if I were you, mate. You know what these politicians are like. They don’t see us as bodyguards. We’re just staff members to them. Next thing you know, he’ll be asking us to carry his luggage.’

  That drew a derisive snort from Bald. ‘If that happens, he’s getting a fucking slap.’

  ‘We don’t have a choice. This is how it’s going to be from now on. No point getting worked up over it.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Strickland had best keep her word about that job in corporate. I’m not putting up with this shite for the next six months unless there’s a pot of gold at the end of it.’

  At nine-thirty the doors on the nearest lift sucked open and Jansen emerged, dressed in a tight bodycon dress and beige heels, with the same striking green coat over the top. She was followed by a short, stumpy man in his late fifties, with ruffled grey hair and the ruddy complexion of a heavy drinker, dressed in a waxed farmer’s jacket and mustard-coloured trousers. Bald recognised his face from a hundred different TV interviews and press clippings.

  Derek Lansbury.

  Jansen led her boss across the lobby, pointing out Bald and Porter. The Blades rose from their seats to greet their principal: the man they would be guarding for the next six months. The famous populist moved in short, urgent strides, his arms swinging heavily from side to side, as if he was on a military march. With his waxed jacket, corduroy trousers and crumpled blue shirt, he was dressed like a gentleman farmer from the shires, popping out for a pint in the lounge bar.

  Lansbury stopped in front of Bald and Porter and rested his jacket over the back of the nearest armchair. He ran a hand through his hair and looked the two bodyguards slowly up and down as Jansen introduced them. He reminded Bald of a general inspecting his troops on the parade ground.

  ‘Freya tells me you two are the new Mick and Gary,’ Lansbury said.

  A statement, not a question. He had a plummy English accent, hoarsened by years of heavy smoking and drinking. Up close the guy looked smaller than he did on TV, thought Bald. Five-five or six, perhaps. He reeked of tobacco and cheap cologne. His forehead glistened. Bald could almost see the alcohol oozing out of his pores. His eyes were small and lizard-like, darting left and right, not missing a single thing.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Porter replied. ‘That’s us.’

  ‘Good to have you aboard. Let’s hope you do a damn sight better than those last two fellows. I assume you heard what happened?’

  ‘Only what’s been in the news, sir.’

  ‘I still can’t understand it. Two highly trained professionals, thirty years of experience between them, roughed up and hospitalised by a damn mugger.’

  Bald said, ‘We’ll protect you, sir. Don’t worry about that. Some bastard migrant takes a pop at you with a knife, he’s the one ending up in A&E. Not us.’

  ‘I should bloody well hope so.’

  Bald nodded and cleared his throat. ‘I just wanted to say, sir, it’s a great honour and privilege to be working for you. For both of us. Me and John are big fans of yours.’

  ‘That’s good to know. One needs all the friends one can get in this line of work.’

  ‘You’ve got two supporters right here, sir. Ignore them bleeding heart liberals on the BBC. You’ve done more for our country than any one of those self-serving twats in Westminster.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Lansbury visibly relaxed. His lips parted into a slight smile. ‘Freya tells me you’re SAS.’

  ‘Former,’ Bald corrected. ‘John and I both retired from the Regiment a few years ago.’

  ‘And you have the scars to prove your service, I s
ee.’ Lansbury pointed to Porter’s disfigured hand. ‘How did you do that, might I ask?’

  ‘It’s a long story, sir.’

  Lansbury’s eyes glowed with curiosity. ‘You will have to tell it to me one day. I do love a good war story.’

  ‘It’d be my pleasure, sir,’ Porter replied tersely.

  There was a smugness about Lansbury that grated with him. The guy carried himself in the same way as the Ruperts that Porter had known at Hereford. Aloof, ignorant and possessing an impermeable self-confidence that verged on arrogance. The kind you get from growing up with a silver spoon stuck up your arse, thought Porter.

  ‘I knew a chap in the SAS, actually,’ said Lansbury.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ asked Bald.

  Lansbury nodded keenly. ‘A fellow by the name of Richard Thacker. Friend of mine from my days at Charterhouse. Went to Sandhurst. Perhaps you know him?’

  ‘I know the one,’ said Bald. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Thacker. He was the commander of 22 SAS back in my day. Excellent officer, sir. All the lads at Hereford loved him.’

  Porter looked askance at Bald, eyes wide as saucers. Lansbury’s smile broadened. ‘Richard will be pleased to hear that. He runs a business now, teaching SAS leadership skills to executive types in the City. Doing rather well for himself, I gather.’

  ‘Good on him, sir.’

  Lansbury nodded stiffly and said, ‘Listen, chaps, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.’ He waved a hand at Jansen. ‘Freya will talk you through my schedule and arrangements. It’s all rather self-explanatory, I think you’ll find.’

  ‘Just one thing,’ Porter said. ‘We’ll need you to wear this from now on.’

  He reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out one of the clip-like GPS trackers the Scaley had given him back at Pontrilas. Lansbury frowned at it.

  ‘What the devil is that?’

  ‘This is a wireless tracker. You clip it to the side of your belt. If you’re in trouble, just push this SOS button and it’ll send an alarm to our phones.’

  ‘The last two blockheads didn’t ask me to wear any such thing.’