Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  The driveway curved round to the left of the castle, towards a four-door garage with a gravel parking area the size of two tennis courts. There was an access road to the right of the castle, leading towards the rear of the property. Several smaller buildings were visible in the middle distance. Bald saw stables and cabins and guest houses, a sauna set beside a small lake.

  Directly ahead stood the mansion.

  Up close it looked even bigger than from a distance. The windows were each as tall as a person. There were arches and cornices and reliefs, more than he could count. There had to be at least twenty rooms inside, Bald guessed. The facade was painted the colour of honey and illuminated by another bank of spotlights.

  Tibor continued down the driveway. He eased off the gas as he steered around the carriage circle before pulling up in front of the entrance, with Porter stopping just behind. A set of stone steps led from the front drive up to the open front door. Two more heavies stood guard either side of the doorway. They were decked out in the same gear as the guys at the gatehouse and brandished the same Kalashnikov MA rifles. Both guys had also shaved their heads. Bald was beginning to detect a theme. Maybe it was a fashion thing, he thought. Like gangster tattoos. Or maybe it was a compulsory part of the uniform. Maybe Butko’s security detail operated a shaved-head-only policy.

  ‘Pull up here,’ Lansbury ordered.

  The chauffeur kept the engine running as Bald hopped out and swung round to the rear passenger side, opening the door for Lansbury. One of the guards stepped forward from his post and addressed Tibor in Hungarian, pointing towards the garage to the left. Telling him where to park, Bald figured. There was a system, presumably. The chauffeur arrowed the S-Class towards the gravel driveway while Bald paced over to the Volvo and gestured for Porter to lower the window.

  ‘Park up next to the Mercedes,’ Bald said. ‘I’ll walk the principal inside, meet you back at the wagon.’

  ‘Roger that, mate.’

  Porter buzzed up the window, drove on.

  ‘Come on,’ Lansbury said to Bald as he marched towards the entrance. ‘Get a bloody move on.’

  The last rays of daylight were sinking beneath the horizon and a chill breeze knifed through the air as Bald followed Lansbury up the steps leading into the castle. They passed the expressionless guards and swept into a wide hallway with marble columns and works of art in gold-painted frames and a high-domed ceiling with a mural painted on it. Some kind of religious iconography. A pair of solid oak doors to the left and right, both blocked by guards. Heavyset guys in dark suits were hanging around the room in pairs, eyes darting this way and that. One look at them told Bald that they were close-protection teams for the other guests.

  At the far end of the hallway a third door led into an even bigger reception room. A walk-through metal detector had been installed in front of the door, manned by a black-jacketed heavy gripping a security wand. This guy actually had hair. Long on the top, short on the back and sides, with wide apart eyes and a scar above his upper lip. Through the open doorway Bald caught a glimpse of some of the other guests. Mostly men, old and white, dressed in grey or black suits.

  There were women too. Lots of them. Young and blonde and curved, wearing tight-fitting dresses that showed off their assets. Bald’s eyes almost popped out of his skull at the sight of them. The after-dinner entertainment, he supposed.

  A figure strode briskly over to Lansbury from across the hallway. Short and thin and grey-haired, with an immense slab of a forehead, wearing a white dinner jacket and bowtie. The same guy Bald had seen in the attachment Strickland had sent through to him. Vitaly Butko, the Russian gold mine magnate. The host of the gathering.

  ‘Derek!’ Butko said. ‘Right on time. Welcome, my friend.’

  Butko had a thick Russian accent. He grinned at Lansbury, pumping his hand enthusiastically. He blanked Bald, as if he simply didn’t exist.

  ‘Vitaly,’ Lansbury said. ‘A pleasure, as always.’

  ‘You’re well, I hope?’

  ‘Very. And I’m even better now that I’m here.’

  The corners of Butko’s lips curved upwards in a smile. ‘We’re all very interested to hear what you have to say tonight. All of the guests are pressing me for information.’

  ‘In good time.’ Lansbury peered past Butko’s shoulder, craning his neck at the faces in the reception room beyond. ‘First, I must speak with our star guest. Is he here yet?’

  Butko nodded. ‘Our mutual friends are keeping him company upstairs. One of my staff will take you to him.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Okay. Tired, you know? But our friends tell me that he’ll be well enough for the meeting.’

  ‘I must have a word with him, before we begin.’

  ‘Do that. Then please, join the other guests. Help yourself to food, drink, whatever you want.’

  Before Lansbury could reply Butko had moved off to greet another new arrival. A tall guy, rake-thin, with a clean-shaven head and a diamond stud in his left ear. With his dark suit, black shirt and gold rings on his fingers he looked more like a nightclub owner in a small town than a populist politician. Bald vaguely recognised him as the Italian Minister for European Affairs, Roberto Zanetti.

  Fuck me, thought Bald. Lansbury wasn’t lying when he said the guest list for this event was exclusive.

  Butko and the Italian firebrand bear-hugged and joked with one another. Lansbury turned to address Bald.

  ‘I’ll be fine from here. Toilets are through there if you need them,’ he said, indicating the door to the left of the hallway. ‘If you’re hungry, use the side entrance to the kitchen. The cooks will fix you something to eat.’

  ‘You sure you don’t need us to go in with you, sir?’ asked Bald.

  ‘Quite sure. You can message me if there’s an emergency. Otherwise I’ll see you in a few hours.’

  Lansbury had half-turned away when Bald said, ‘Sorry, sir. There is one thing. Before I forget.’

  Lansbury stopped again, swung round to face Bald. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Been meaning to give you this, sir.’

  Bald reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a poker-chip sized coin and offered it to Lansbury. He looked at the coin without taking it. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s an SAS challenge coin, sir. These things are a one-off. Only the guys who’ve served in the Regiment have one.’

  ‘You wish to give me your own personal SAS coin?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Lansbury was momentarily lost for words. Then he said, ‘I’m humbled, Jock. Truly. But I couldn’t possibly accept it. You worked hard to earn this.’

  ‘Sir, I insist,’ Bald replied. ‘I want you to have it. My way of saying thanks, for everything you’ve done for our country. It’d be an honour.’

  Lansbury looked genuinely touched. He clasped his hand firmly around the coin and smiled at Bald. ‘Thank you. I mean it. I shall keep it by me at all times.’

  ‘No, sir. Thank you, for sticking up for blokes like me. About time somebody did it.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Lansbury placed a hand on Bald’s shoulder, lips spread into the world’s smuggest grin. He tucked the challenge coin into his pocket and stood erect. Then he turned on his heels and strode purposefully across the hallway towards the detector. Bald lingered by the entrance, pretending to study the fire escape layout while he watched Lansbury out of the corner of his eye. He strutted through the detector and set off the beeper. The guard with the scarred upper lip held out a plastic tray, gesturing for Lansbury to empty his pockets. He fished out his phone, wallet, keys, a handful of loose change. Challenge coin. The guard flipped disinterestedly through the wallet, placed a sticker over the camera lens on the iPhone, turned his attention to the challenge coin.

  Picked it up and examined it.

  There was a brief exchange between the guard and Lansbury about the coin. Bald was too far away to hear what was being said, but from Lansbury’s haughty tone of voice he had th
e impression the guy was bragging about it. That’s a genuine SAS coin, young man. The guard inspected it again. In the periphery of his vision Bald could see the guy puzzling it out. Is this permitted, or not? Then he shrugged and handed it back to Lansbury with the rest of his personal effects.

  Waved him through.

  Bald made his way out of the hallway. He paced down the steps and headed straight for the garage to the left of the carriage circle. The Volvo and the S-Class were parked alongside one another in front of the garage, twenty-five metres away from the front of the castle, their bodyworks illuminated by the security lights mounted atop the garage roof. Further down the main driveway, Bald could see more cars turning up now, headlights burning as they steered towards the entrance. A tall, thin man in a rumpled suit stepped out of a silver Nissan Patrol. Bald recognised him as Henri Marveaux, the leader of the French nationalists. Butko greeted Marveaux warmly as he climbed the steps. The Patrol rolled off and parked up on the other side of the garage driveway from the S-Class and Volvo.

  Bald breezed past the S-Class. He gave a nod to the chauffeur and climbed into the front passenger seat of the Volvo wagon. Porter looked a question at him.

  ‘Well? Did he buy it?’

  ‘Aye,’ Bald said. ‘Prick took the challenge coin right in with him. Guards didn’t bother him about it, either.’

  Porter grinned. ‘See, Jock? I told you it would work.’

  ‘You had one good idea,’ Bald said. ‘Big deal. I’m the one who had to butter him up on the way down here, telling him what a great fucking bloke he was.’

  ‘You sure you didn’t enjoy that? Thought you two would have plenty in common.’

  Bald glared at Porter before he took out his phone. ‘Just get on the blower to Six. Tell ’em the score.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Porter, nodding at Bald as the latter dug out his iPhone.

  ‘Taking photos of the new arrivals. This thing is a fucking who’s who of right-wing celebrities.’

  ‘Thinking about a new career with the paparazzi?’

  ‘Piss off and make the call.’

  Bald opened the camera app, tilted the phone horizontally and zoomed in on the front steps. From their position to the left of the carriage circle he and Porter had an unobstructed view of the front of the castle and surrounding grounds. On the near side of the castle Bald could see the side door leading into the kitchen, the catering vans parked up outside, waiting staff ducking in and out. He kept his phone trained on the front door, snapping pics as each new car pulled up and disgorged its VIP.

  At the same time Porter tapped out an encrypted message to Strickland. BROKEN RECORD just entered the building. We had to give him the challenge coin. Meeting begins 17.30. All security scans should be complete by then. He hit the blue send icon and waited.

  Sixty seconds later his phone vibrated. Understood. Hold off broadcasting until 17.30 hours. We’ll be on standby.

  Porter de-encrypted the phone again. He picked up the iPad he’d stowed in the glove compartment, unlocked it and opened the rebroadcasting app, ready to begin transmitting the audio back to Strickland and the team at Vauxhall. Porter wouldn’t remotely activate the bug inside the challenge coin until the meeting was due to begin at five-thirty. Any earlier was a risk. The security team might conduct further sweeps before the guests were allowed to enter the conference room. Safer to leave the coin bug switched off until the real action began.

  Nine minutes past five in the evening.

  Twenty-one minutes until the conference began.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Twenty minutes later, the forty guests filed into the meeting room at Koman Castle.

  A massive U-shaped walnut conference table occupied the middle of the room. There were sixteen chairs arranged on either side and another eight chairs along the shorter end section. In front of each chair there was an upturned tumbler, bottles of still and sparkling water, one of each, and a pair of headphones for those few guests who didn’t speak English. A small group of translators was sitting in an adjacent room, each one carefully vetted and hand-picked by Butko himself. They would be disposed of by his security team after the event, just in case.

  Orders from the man Lansbury was working for.

  Don’t leave any tracks. No one must know what goes on inside this room.

  The house staff showed the guests to their respective seats. Thirty-two of the guests sat on the longer sides of the conference table. The other eight took up their places on the end section. Derek Lansbury sat at an additional table at the other end of the room, facing the conference table. To his right sat Vitaly Butko, his bony hands resting flat on the table. To his left sat the joint organiser, the Hungarian prime minister Márton Fodor, side-fingering his bushy Hussar moustache.

  The fourth chair was empty.

  A diamond chandelier the approximate dimensions of a UFO hung from the ceiling. The room was adorned with gold: gilded decorative cornices, gold-embroidered curtains, ornate candleholders and framed mirrors. There was so much bling on display the room looked like a rapper’s wet dream. To the left of the room there was a discreet side door that remained closed.

  Lansbury watched in silence as the last guests took up their places. Around the table sat the leaders of every major populist and fascist movement in Europe. The political heavyweights: Zanetti, Marveaux. Andreas Polster, the silver-haired Austrian Vice-Chancellor. Effenberg, the leader of Germany’s far-right group. Edwin de Jong, the dark-haired, pale-eyed Dutchman dressed like a British dandy in a three-piece tweed suit. Then there were the less familiar faces. Munoz, the Spanish aristocrat. Fringe extremists from Finland and Slovakia. Bulgarian and Croatian fascists, the leader of a Georgian vigilante group and Karkamanis, the frontman for the Greek ultra-nationalists. The group was mostly male, with a handful of women.

  Some had been elected leaders of their countries. Others were leaders-in-waiting, heads of opposition parties, junior partners in coalition governments. The remainder were smaller but highly influential movements in their respective countries, drawing thousands to political rallies, spreading their message through online news networks, YouTube channels and Twitter accounts.

  All of them had a common goal: the destruction of the smug elite order of the West. And they had all received aid from the Kremlin to help them achieve that ambition.

  This is like a meeting of Mafia bosses, Lansbury thought to himself. Like something out of a black-and-white gangster film. All the major crime families coming together.

  Which was appropriate, he realised. Because they were about to discuss something criminal.

  Treasonous, even.

  He waited for the hubbub of polite conversation to die down. Then he cleared his throat and projected his voice as he addressed his audience.

  ‘Gentlemen, ladies. Thank you for coming here tonight. It’s truly wonderful to be among so many old friends and allies.’ He placed both hands flat on the table, looked slowly round the room. ‘As you all know, I’m here to represent the interests of our friend in the White House. The president sends his regards, but regrets that prior engagements mean he cannot be here tonight. In other words,’ Lansbury smiled icily, ‘he’s too busy telling the liberal elite where to stick it. He’s asked me to stand in for him and oversee proceedings. I assume no one in this room has a problem with that arrangement?’

  ‘That’s all very well, Derek,’ de Jong, the Dutchman, said in his peculiar high-pitched voice. ‘But why are we here?’

  ‘I’ll come to that shortly,’ Lansbury replied. ‘But before we begin, I would remind everyone in this room that what is about to be discussed is in the strictest confidence. Anyone caught sharing the details of this meeting – anyone who even acknowledges the mere fact of this meeting – will be severely punished. Are we clear, chaps?’

  He swept his eyes across the room again. Quick nods. Murmurs of agreement. Although he was addressing several heads of state and junior ministers, no one dared challenge Lansbury’
s authority. Which was understandable, he thought to himself. Because I have the most powerful man in the world behind me.

  ‘Before we get started, we need to discuss something,’ Zanetti interrupted. ‘We need to talk about this migrant shit. I’m getting killed on this back home, now I’ve got the fucking gypsies making problems too. We need a joint line on this. Make sure we’ve got each other’s backs, like we agreed before.’

  Several voices around the table murmured their agreement. Lansbury raised a placatory hand, calling for silence. After a few moments, the voices died away.

  ‘There will be plenty of time to discuss any concerns you have later on,’ Lansbury said. ‘Any grievances among us can be aired then. But the main purpose of our meeting tonight is to discuss a matter of vital importance. Not only to ourselves, but to the global political landscape and, indeed, the very future of our nations.’

  Lansbury paused, making sure he had everyone’s full attention. The guests all sat upright, looking on with interest. Satisfied, he went on.

  ‘I assume you have all heard or read about President Drummond’s latest pronouncements regarding NATO. Specifically, the refusal of certain NATO partners to pull their own weight and up their defence budgets, despite repeated demands from the White House.’

  ‘What of it?’ asked de Jong.

  Lansbury continued, ‘The president has made his feelings on the subject quite clear. He has asked me to inform you that he is no longer willing to be taken for granted by so-called allies. The time has come for action. Those are the president’s words, not mine.’

  Zanetti shrugged. ‘So the Germans won’t pay their own way while demanding debts from their poor brothers and sisters to the south. You called us fucking here for this?’

  Effenberg shot him a cold stare.

  Lansbury shook his head. ‘The president has reached a decision. He wants to let you know in advance, so you can prepare yourselves accordingly.’

  ‘Prepare for what?’ asked de Jong. ‘What decision?’