Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  Porter hung up. He sent the snaps he’d taken to Strickland’s number, de-encrypted the iPhone. No need to wipe the messages or phone log. Every scrap of activity was automatically deleted when the phone returned to its false-screen mode. He tucked the handset into his jacket pocket and relayed his chat with Bald. Porter glanced at the Hotel Flamingo in the rear-view mirror as Bald K-turned in the street and pointed the Volvo north, taking them back in the direction of the Royal Duna.

  ‘Let’s hope Lansbury doesn’t get suspicious about us,’ he muttered.

  Bald said, ‘He won’t. We’re on his good side, mate. Flavour of the fucking month, just like Moorcroft said. He won’t suspect a thing.’

  ‘But he knows someone is watching him. The fucker is paranoid enough as it is. He’s going to be looking at everyone with a new pair of eyes after this, Jock.’

  ‘If he does, we’ll just deny it. Blame it on the old BG team.’

  ‘He won’t buy that.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. All we need to do is keep up with the arse-kissing contest. As long as we stay in his good books, he won’t turn on us.’

  ‘And if you’re wrong?’

  ‘I’m not. Never am.’

  Porter glanced at his mucker. Bald seemed totally calm and sure of himself despite the fact that they had come close to being rumbled. Every guy in the Regiment was a risk-taker but Bald was something else, thought Porter. The bloke was fucking hardcore. He was capable of doing things no one else in Hereford would even think about.

  Jock doesn’t think the rules apply to him. Which is what makes him such an effective operator.

  But it also makes him a dangerous partner.

  Porter turned his attention to the map on the tablet screen, swiping left and right, assessing the surrounding area. Hungary was a fairly compact country. Bigger than Slovakia, smaller than Austria. Wherever the two Russians were taking Lansbury, he figured it couldn’t be any more than an hour away from their current location. Lansbury had said he would be back at the hotel at one o’clock for his phone interview with the Telegraph. Which put the meeting as far as Györ to the west, Kecskemét to the south or the Great Plains to the east. North was the ancient capital at Esztergom and the Slovakian border.

  A lot of possibilities. None of them glaringly obvious.

  He put the iPad to sleep, looked over at Bald. ‘Who do you think this Russian is? The one they’re taking him to meet.’

  Bald shrugged. ‘Could be Garry fucking Kasparov, for all we know.’

  Porter thought for a moment. ‘It’s got to be someone those populists have heard of. Someone recognisable.’

  ‘Probably some right-wing blogger or commentator,’ Bald mused. ‘One of those conspiracy theorists with their own YouTube news channel. The ones who reckon 9/11 was an inside job, all that bollocks.’

  Porter gave him a sceptical look. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Why not? Some of those YouTube guys are legends on the far right. The populists love all that shite.’

  ‘But why would the Russians go to all this fuss, just to protect some random conspiracy theorist? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Either way,’ said Bald, ‘we’ll find out soon enough.’

  Porter nodded and stared out of the window, his mind racing ahead of him.

  A high-profile Russian, he thought. Someone with a story to tell. One that will persuade even the most difficult of your friends, Nasal Voice had said.

  Who could that be?

  And what was the proposal they had been talking about?

  The boss asked us to find a way of guaranteeing support for his project.

  We’re asking your colleagues to swallow a big pill, politically speaking.

  What the fuck did that mean?

  I don’t know what Lansbury is planning tonight, Porter thought. But it’s definitely something big.

  We’ve got Lansbury meeting with a gang of top populists and fascists.

  We’ve got him attending a secret RV with two guys who are potentially Russian agents.

  And now we know he’s going to another meeting with a mystery guest speaker.

  Someone who Nasal Voice and his mate, and whoever they were working for, believed could sway the populists into agreeing whatever was being proposed at the conference later.

  ‘We’re getting close,’ Porter said.

  ‘We’ve got a bunch of random stuff,’ Bald countered. ‘No smoking gun.’

  Porter looked away, his jaw muscles tightening with frustration. Jock’s right, he thought. They had pieces, but the bigger picture eluded them.

  The drive back to the Royal Duna took them thirty minutes. They retraced their steps through the city, plodding along at twenty miles per hour. The tree-lined streets around Buda, the bridge across the Danube. Then the dirt and crowds and noise of the thoroughfares on the Pest side of the river. By the time they had nudged the XC90 back into the car park beneath the hotel the clock on the dash read 10.49 hours.

  Just under an hour since Lansbury had arrived at the Hotel Flamingo. A little over two hours until he was due to give his interview on the phone.

  Plenty of time to sneak into his room and set up the bugs, thought Porter.

  He said, ‘How are we gonna get into Lansbury’s room?’

  Bald thought for a beat. ‘Jansen can get us a key from reception. We’ll tell her we need to conduct a routine sweep of his room.’

  ‘Someone will have to keep her busy,’ Porter replied. ‘Make sure she stays well away from his room while we plant everything.’

  ‘I’ll take care of her. Use some of the old Bald magic. I’ll take her down to the bar and tell her I need to run through the security arrangements for tonight. Should give you time to get it all sorted.’

  ‘Why don’t I take Jansen down instead?’

  ‘No offence, mate, but you’re not her type.’

  ‘What type is that?’

  ‘Hard Scottish bastards.’ Bald grinned slyly. ‘Posh birds love a bit of northern rough.’

  ‘You’re a wanker, Jock.’

  ‘Aye. But I’m a wanker who gets his end away.’

  They rode the lift to the third floor, passed a cleaning trolley and stopped outside the door to their room. Porter swiped his key card against the electronic lock. There was a beeping noise as the red light above the card reader blinked green. Porter cranked the handle and stepped inside the room, eager to plant the bugs before Lansbury returned to the hotel.

  He took another step inside. Stopped dead.

  Bald stopped too.

  A platinum-blonde figure in a bright green coat was standing over Porter’s bed.

  Rooting through his nylon holdall.

  Jansen.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Jansen stood very still. Her eyes narrowed to razor slits as she looked from Bald to Porter and back again. Red-painted fingernails rested on the seam of the unzipped holdall. Several items of Porter’s clothing were spread across the duvet. Spare work shirts and socks, a pair of gym shorts and trainers, a charger for his iPad and his engraved Ted Baker wash bag. The one his daughter Sandy had given him for his fiftieth birthday.

  Next to the personal items were several black matchbox-sized devices.

  The portable listening devices Porter had stashed at the bottom of his holdall. They were all there, he saw, laid out separately from the rest of his gear, along with a couple of the coin-sized bugs, a laptop adapter and phone charger. One of the hard drives for storing all the audio content. The two Regiment challenge coins.

  Everything Hogan had given them back at Pontrilas two days ago.

  Porter’s eyes drifted across to the luggage padlock. It was still attached to the zipper at one end of the opening. For a moment he wondered how Jansen had managed to prise open his holdall without removing the padlock. Then he saw the ballpoint pen, lying next to the listening devices. Jansen would have used the tip of the pen to perforate the meshed teeth, bypassing the padlock. Once she had finished searching through hi
s stuff, all she would need to do is pull the zipper back across the seam and the teeth would clamp shut again. No evidence of entry. Basic knowledge for anyone in Porter’s line of work. But not something that a PA would necessarily know about.

  So how did she know how to break into my holdall?

  Porter slanted his gaze across the room to the other bed. Bald’s holdall had also been tampered with, his personal shit hurriedly dumped in a pile, the listening bugs laid out separately.

  Bald broke the silence. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  Jansen paused, narrowed eyes fixed on Porter. ‘Nothing,’ she replied hesitantly.

  ‘Doesn’t look like nothing,’ Bald growled. ‘Looks like you’re sneaking around our fucking room.’

  ‘The draft of one of Mr Lansbury’s speeches is missing,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘I was searching for it.’

  ‘In our fucking luggage?’

  Jansen said nothing.

  Her face said everything.

  Porter took another step into the room, blocking her exit. In the corridor outside, he could hear voices. More than one of them. Foreign. Hungarian, probably. The maids. Chatting to one another, trading gossip like cleaning staff the world over. Bald quietly closed the door and stepped forward, drawing alongside his mucker.

  ‘How’d you get in here?’

  ‘I had a spare key card,’ Jansen said. ‘Gary gave it to me, in case of emergencies.’

  ‘And, what, you just decided to sneak in here behind our backs?’

  Jansen said nothing. Bald said, ‘Why don’t you tell us what’s really going on?’

  The assistant’s eyes darted nervously between Bald and Porter. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yeah, you do,’ Bald said. ‘You didn’t sneak in here to look for some missing papers, did you?’

  Jansen stiffened. ‘I’m not the one in trouble. You are.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  Jansen waved a hand at the kit spread out across Porter’s bed. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. These are GSM listening devices. The ones you hide bugs inside. You’re spying on Derek.’

  Porter stood very still. Another question scraped like a fingernail down the nape of his neck. How does Jansen know what all this high-tech equipment is?

  ‘This stuff?’ Bald laughed. ‘This is routine. We carry it everywhere.’

  ‘Nonsense. Gary and Mick didn’t have anything like this.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Bald took another step towards Jansen, his expression tightening. ‘Or did you break and enter their room behind their backs as well?’

  Jansen didn’t respond. The silence hung heavy in the air.

  ‘All this stuff is legit,’ Bald added.

  ‘You’re lying,’ Jansen said. She tried to strike a pose of defiance, but her voice was hollow and uncertain.

  Bald said, ‘It’s the truth. Just let me explain.’

  Jansen hesitated again. Her eyes darted anxiously between Bald and Porter. Outside in the hallway, Porter could hear the voices of the cleaning staff getting louder. Drawing nearer to the room. They had stopped outside the room directly opposite, Porter realised. A sudden shout or cry from Jansen would alert them. In less than a minute, hotel security would be kicking down the door.

  And then me and Jock will be well and truly fucked.

  Bald took a step forward, edging ahead of Porter.

  ‘Call your boss if you don’t believe us. Tell him about the bugs. No skin off our noses. While you’re at it, perhaps you can explain to him what you’re doing in our room. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to hear that.’

  Jansen said nothing. Her face was stitched with anxiety. She backed away from Bald, eyes flitting across the room, as if she was searching for an escape route.

  ‘Go on,’ said Bald. ‘Call him.’

  ‘Stay back. I’m warning you.’

  Bald took another step towards her. Jansen retreated from the bed, backing up towards the French windows on the far side of the room. Bald was ahead of Porter now, with Jansen three or four steps away from him. In the corridor, Porter could make out the distinct voices of the two cleaning maids. They sounded so close they could almost have been in the same room. Bald slowly reached a hand into his jacket pocket, dug out his iPhone. Thumb-unlocked the Home screen and extended his arm towards the PA.

  ‘Here. Use my phone. Call your boss. Or better yet, call the head of the security company me and Porter work for. Ask them about any of the stuff in our bags. They’ll tell you.’

  ‘One more step,’ Jansen said, ‘and I’ll scream for help, I swear to God.’

  ‘We’re on the same side here,’ Bald said in a soothing voice as he edged closer. ‘We’re just trying to help you understand.’

  ‘Stay away!’

  She opened her mouth to scream.

  The words never left her throat.

  Bald stepped towards her in a flash of movement, hip-twisted his torso, stamped his left heel on the ground and drove forward with his left arm, striking Jansen on the sternum. Not the hardest blow Bald had ever landed. Not by a long shot. He went with the heel of his palm rather than a clenched fist, minimising the impact. He didn’t want to cause any long-term damage. He just wanted to knock the wind out of her. Jansen gasped as a wave of pain spread through her stomach, driving the air from her lungs. Bald grabbed a fistful of her hair and planted her face down against one of the plump pillows, muffling her cries. He kept her head pressed down as he looked over at Porter.

  ‘Give us a fucking hand, mate. Get them plasticuffs and gaffer tape.’

  Porter hastened over to his bed, fished out a pair of plasticuffs and a roll of double-sided tape from the bottom of the half-emptied holdall. Essential travel gear for any self-respecting Blade. He took the plasticuffs and manoeuvred around to the back of Jansen. By now she had recovered from the initial shock of the blow and she was thrashing wildly beneath Bald’s firm grip, struggling in vain to break free. Porter pressed a knee against her legs, forced her arms behind her back and slapped the plasticuffs around her wrists, cinching the wire tight. Not sufficient to cut off the blood supply, but tight enough to be uncomfortable. Jansen continued to rock frantically from side to side, kicking out and screaming hysterically into the pillow as Porter tore off a six-inch strip from the roll of double-sided tape. Bald gave her another quick dig to the kidneys, stunning her for long enough for Porter to slap the tape across her mouth.

  ‘Search her pockets,’ said Bald. ‘Hurry.’

  Porter rummaged through her coat. He found her iPhone and an Orla Kiely print wallet and a second mobile he assumed was a burner. A crappy no-name Asian brand Porter had never heard of. He set both phones and the wallet down on the side table and helped Bald manhandle Jansen towards the bathroom. Tears streamed down her reddened cheeks as the PA whimpered into the gaffer tape, begging with her captors. Her eyes were mascara-smudged and wide with fear. The confidence of a few moments ago replaced by sheer terror.

  Porter wrenched open the bathroom door and flipped the spotlights on. Then Bald threw Jansen inside. She let out a muffled yelp of pain as she stumbled and flopped helplessly to the marble floor, collapsing beside the toilet. Bald stepped out of the bathroom, locked the door from the outside and joined Porter at the other end of the room. The pair of them held a conference in front of the French windows, out of earshot of the bathroom. They switched on the TV and upped the volume. Partly to mask the faint cries coming from the bathroom. But also to make sure that Jansen didn’t overhear them.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Porter.

  Bald counted off on his fingers. ‘One, she broke into our room. Two, she knows how to break into someone’s luggage without leaving a trace. Three, she knows what a GSM bug looks like. Only a professional would recognise that stuff.’

  ‘Don’t forget the burner.’

  Bald rubbed a hand across his bristled jaw and thought it through. ‘She’s bullshitting. That’s for sure. Her story doesn’t add
up. Got more holes in it than a pub dart board.’

  ‘You think she’s working for someone?’

  ‘If she is, she’s not a professional. An asset, maybe. Or an informant. But a real pro wouldn’t have freaked out. She panicked as soon as we turned the tables on her.’

  ‘Could be a sleeper,’ Porter suggested. ‘Someone might have told her to search through our stuff. That might explain why she knows about the bugs.’

  ‘Maybe she’s working for Six.’

  ‘Jansen?’ Porter pulled a face. ‘Vauxhall would have told us. Surely?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put anything past those sneaky bastards.’

  Porter considered for a moment, shook his head. ‘No. Strickland would have told us. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘The Russians, then. Could be a belt and braces thing.’

  Which was a more likely scenario, Porter thought. The Russians wouldn’t fully trust Lansbury. They would be aware of his slippery reputation and his shifting allegiances. They would want someone else close to him, someone he would regularly confide in. Such a person would report back to the Russians, telling them what Lansbury had said, who he had met with. The Russians would then know whether he was telling them the truth, or if he was saying something completely different behind their backs. The sleeper would be a valuable secondary source of intelligence.

  ‘Either way, we need to dump her,’ said Bald. ‘Get rid of her before she blows our cover.’

  Porter shook his head. ‘We need to call it in.’

  ‘What for? She’s got to go.’

  ‘Strickland needs to know,’ Porter snapped. ‘That’s not up for discussion. I’ll get on the blower. You keep an eye on the assistant. Make sure she doesn’t make a racket.’

  Porter dug out his handset from his jacket pocket, opened the flashlight app, tapped in the encryption code and pulled up the false screen. Found Strickland’s number and dialled. The line rang for seven long beats. Porter caught himself eyeing up the minibar. The voice whispered in his ear again.

  Urging him to have a drink.

  This was supposed to be a straightforward BG op.

  Now we’re dealing with a possible Russian sleeper.