Black Ops

by Chris Ryan

  He climbed out of the van, leaving Danny alone with the police officer, who looked less than thrilled to be in that situation. Roscoe reappeared thirty seconds later. ‘Out you get. You know where we’re going.’

  ‘Holding cell?’

  Roscoe nodded. ‘You know we can do it one of two ways, right?’

  ‘I thought we were mates, Roscoe,’ Danny said. He knew he sounded like a dick, but he was angry, and he was panicked, and he was about to endure the humiliation of being put behind bars in the guard room of RAF Credenhill, like a common criminal. The holding cells were for anyone causing trouble on site or off, and it was an indignity to find yourself incarcerated there.

  As he stepped out of the Transit van, his wrists still cuffed behind his back, he couldn’t help but look at the sky. The clouds were dark and boiling. A storm was threatening. The air was cold but full of moisture. For a split second, Danny gave thought to another escape attempt, but his options were non-existent. The guard room was situated just next to the main entrance barrier. The entrance was normally guarded by an MoD policeman. This morning he had three Regiment guys as back-up. Five other guys, all of whom Danny recognised, were dotted around the Transit van. They had the demeanour of men who didn’t like what they were doing, but were going to do it anyway. Any thoughts Danny had of controlling his next move faded. He had no option but to follow Roscoe into the guard house.

  There was one guy at the desk – Tim Saxton from A Squadron. His eyes widened at the sight of Roscoe’s bloodied face. He stared at Danny, then pointed at the door that led to the holding cells. Danny walked through it to avoid the ignominy of being ordered there by Roscoe. A minute later he was in the holding cell, sitting on a red plastic stool fixed to the floor. ‘You need to sort your shit out,’ Roscoe said before leaving. ‘But I’ll see what I can do to get you out of here.’ Danny almost felt like laughing. He knew Roscoe’s influence with the head shed was precisely zero.

  He sat alone with his thoughts, and waited.

  Bethany had no physical driving licence corresponding to the identity of her dark-haired alter ego. But she’d bought the false identity from the very best the dark web had to offer, and she knew the DVLA would have the name on file. It only took a call from the girl at the car-hire desk to confirm. She paid for two days’ rental of a Honda CR-V with cash and walked briskly to the pick-up location. She patiently allowed the Mancunian guy there to mansplain to her how to drive it, and agreed with a solemn nod that it was important to check the paintwork for any scuffs. If she’d been anything other than attentive to his patronising explanations, she’d have rendered herself memorable. Having indulged him, she drove away safe in the knowledge that she had been instantly forgettable.

  She had some shopping to do. Leaving the airport, she followed signs to the city centre, where she parked up in the Trafford shopping mall. She walked straight past Next, New Look and Top Shop. She ignored Apple, Jo Malone and Starbucks. Her destination was John Lewis. She headed through haberdashery, lingerie and toys until she reached the houseware section. She stood by the rice cookers and looked around somewhat aimlessly. A clean-shaven young man with short red hair approached her. ‘Can I help you at all?’ he asked.

  Bethany smiled at him. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you can. I’ve decided to treat myself to some new kitchen knives. My old ones are dreadful.’

  The young man inclined his head in an old-fashioned manner. ‘If you’d like to come this way,’ he said, ‘I’ll show you what we have in stock.’

  The CO entered the holding area. Danny stood up immediately. ‘Black, what in the name of . . .’

  ‘Boss, it’s not what it looks like. You need to let me out of here . . .’ But as he spoke, Sturrock entered. Danny knew from a glance that he was moving in for the kill.

  The MI6 chief’s eyes looked yellower and meaner than before. He reeked of suspicion and looked like Danny felt: exhausted. ‘I think,’ he said with the wary confidence of a man who knows his immediate threat is safely behind a locked door, ‘we’ll debrief you where we can keep an eye on you. Would you like a lawyer present, Black?’

  Danny ignored him and addressed the CO. ‘You need to let me go. She’s . . .’

  ‘Would you like a lawyer present?’

  Danny turned slowly to face him. ‘I don’t need a lawyer,’ he said.

  ‘Then talk!’ Sturrock snapped. ‘I want to know every detail of what has happened.’

  The CO nodded mutely. Danny suppressed his anger. Then he started to talk.

  He told them everything. How they’d abducted, questioned and eliminated Al-Farouk. How they’d requested intel on Adnan Abadi and made contact with Guerrero, Ludlow and Rollett. How Danny had installed Bethany White anonymously in the Hotel Faisal before crossing over with his team into Syria. He told them how they’d left Barak, and how they’d been ambushed on their approach to Abadi’s compound. He told them how his team had been KIA, and how he’d raided the compound alone.

  The CO was completely expressionless as Danny spoke, but already Danny could tell that Sturrock didn’t believe what he was saying. Danny wasn’t surprised. Pen-pushers seldom understood what happened on the ground. He recounted what he had learned in Abadi’s compound, and what he had seen: the gruesome video footage of Ibrahim Khan’s final hours. Sturrock was openly shaking his head by this point. When Danny explained that the laptop had been destroyed, Sturrock muttered: ‘How convenient.’ And as Danny finished talking he snorted derisively. ‘I’ve never heard such claptrap in my life,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten that Ibrahim Khan’s DNA was found at the murder site in Florida? Hard for him to be in Palm Beach when he’d been killed six months before by Daesh, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten,’ Danny said, ‘that he was married to Bethany White. Not so hard for her to source a DNA sample, wouldn’t you say?’

  Sturrock wagged his finger. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to twist it, Black. We have Bethany White’s body, and as soon as we’ve positively identified it, you’re going to have some explaining to do.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything.’ He appealed to the CO to back him up, but Williamson kept quiet.

  ‘No you haven’t,’ Sturrock said. ‘You haven’t explained, if you and Bethany White were the only two people in the world who knew that she was staying at the Hotel Faisal, how did Ibrahim Khan know how to locate her?’

  Danny stared at him in disbelief. ‘Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? Ibrahim Khan is dead . . .’

  ‘And there’s one other thing you haven’t explained. When we first brought you in to talk about this operation, you knew we were after Ibrahim Khan before we even told you. How could you have known that? How could you possibly have known that?’

  Danny stared at him in dismay as he realised what Sturrock was implying. ‘I worked it out,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t so hard.’

  ‘Not so hard,’ he said, ‘if you were aware of it in advance. By your own admission, you knew Ibrahim Khan . . .’

  ‘I met him once.’

  ‘So you claim,’ Sturrock said, and it was clear from the tone of his voice that he thought Danny was lying. He turned to the CO. ‘He tried to escape. He attacked a fellow soldier. He’s plainly not telling us the truth.’ He enumerated these points by raising three fingers. ‘This man stays under lock and key until I give you the word. Is that clear?’

  ‘I think you’re barking up the wrong tree,’ the CO said.

  ‘Is that clear?’

  The CO glanced at Danny. ‘Perfectly clear,’ he said.

  ‘I know what you Regiment types are like,’ Sturrock said, his voice suddenly dangerously quiet as he continued to address the CO. ‘Watching each other’s backs even when you’re in the wrong. Well, not on my watch. My instructions come straight from Number Ten, and this man stays right where he is until I’ve got to the bottom of this, otherwise you’re looking for a new job.’

  Sturrock turned and m
ade to leave the room. ‘What’s got you so nervous, Sturrock?’ Danny said before he could exit.

  Sturrock stopped. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You told me Ibrahim Khan is killing members of the MISFIT team because he was turned by IS. I think you’re lying about that.’

  Sturrock’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything.

  ‘You want to ask me how I know you’re lying about that?’

  Again, no answer.

  ‘Because I know he’s not killing the MISFIT team. So whoever is doing it, they’re doing it for a different reason.’

  A heavy silence fell over the holding cells. Sturrock’s discomfort seemed to fill the room. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said finally. ‘There’s no doubt Ibrahim Khan killed those men. And you . . .’ He jabbed his forefinger in Danny’s direction. ‘You’re just digging yourself deeper into a hole of your own making.’ Sturrock looked at the CO. ‘He stays where he is, no matter what.’ He strode out of the room without looking back.

  ‘Boss . . .’ Danny started to say, but the CO raised a finger to silence him.

  ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’ Williamson asked. ‘Off the record?’

  Danny stared at him. ‘Tell me you’re not thinking what he’s thinking,’ he said. ‘The only contact I’ve ever had with Ibrahim Khan was that one time, years ago. You believe me, right?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think just now, Danny. But you’re not giving me much to go on. What was that shit with Roscoe? Forget about being returned to unit, that’s a court martial offence.’

  Danny had no answer. But he did have a request. ‘Do me a favour, boss,’ he said. ‘Make some calls. Find out Bullock, Armitage and Moorhouse’s official times of death. MI6 will keep a detailed record of their agents’ movements, right? If they know exactly where Bethany White was at those times, beyond any doubt, then I’ll drop it. But they won’t. She’ll have dropped off the radar at those times. I promise you.’

  The CO didn’t look keen. Making enquiries of this nature behind Sturrock’s back was a serious breach of protocol. But he nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. Then he followed Sturrock back into the guard room, leaving Danny alone in the holding cell.

  ‘The decision you have to make,’ said the sales assistant, ‘is whether to go for German, French or Japanese. The edges are all ground at different angles.’

  ‘As long as they’re sharp,’ Bethany said, and there must have been something in her voice that sounded unusual, because the young man looked at her oddly. Bethany smiled at him. ‘I find it’s more about how they feel in the hand,’ she said. ‘Could I have a look at a few?’

  They were standing at a counter at the far end of the department. There was a glass cabinet behind it, filled with a display of kitchen knives. The sales assistant unlocked and opened it. He pulled down a selection of knives and laid them in a line on the counter. ‘At this end,’ he said, ‘French. Everything up from a paring knife to a large chef’s knife. What will you be using your knives for mostly, do you think?’

  ‘Meat,’ she said. She picked up the largest of the black-handled French knives. ‘It’s a little heavy,’ she added, weighing it in her hand. ‘I think I prefer something more subtle. This one, perhaps.’

  ‘A Japanese filleting knife,’ the sales assistant said. ‘For fish, mostly. Or for carving.’

  Bethany picked it up. The blade was long and exquisitely sharp. The knife was moulded from a single piece of metal, and felt good in the hand. ‘I’ll take this,’ she said. ‘And something shorter.’ She pointed at a German knife with a curved three-inch blade.

  ‘Certainly, Madam.’ He hesitated. ‘These are quite specialist knives. Perhaps you’d like to look at more of an all-rounder?’

  Bethany was about to refuse, when it struck her that to walk away without a regular chef’s knife would be conspicuous. She selected a five-inch blade almost at random, and allowed the shop assistant to carefully package up her knives. ‘Will that be all, Madam?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bethany said. The sales assistant started to put the purchases through the till. ‘Actually, no. I’m cooking a roast tonight. I don’t suppose you sell butcher’s string?’

  ‘Of course, Madam. I’ll go and fetch it for you.’

  ‘Two rolls, please.’

  ‘A large joint is it, Madam?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bethany said. ‘Very.’

  Two minutes later she was walking back through the Trafford Centre, her John Lewis bag in one hand. She only had a couple of hundred pounds left in cash now, but that would be enough. She paid for her parking and, when she was back in the car, unpackaged the knives and stashed them in the glove compartment where they were easy to access. A couple and their young son squeezed past her car as she was doing this. The adults were too tall to see in, but the boy’s head was at just the right height to see her with the three knives in her hand. He looked momentarily alarmed, but Bethany gave him a reassuring, motherly smile. His expression relaxed and he trotted after his parents.

  Bethany cached the knives, leaned back in the driver’s seat and took a deep breath. The boy had reminded him of her own son. That expression of curiosity. That adorable innocence.

  And as always, when she thought of her boy, she thought of his father, and of the things they did to him. The thought made her palms clammy and her skin prickle. A numb determination passed over her. Soon, she would have finished what she’d started. She would do right by Ibrahim. She would avenge the love of her life and the father of her child. She and little Danny would be able to live out their lives in peace.

  But none of that could happen while the architects of the MISFIT operation were still alive. Which meant two more people had to lose their lives.

  It would happen today.

  Thirty minutes later she was on the motorway, heading south. The weather grew worse, the sky turning from pale grey to almost black. There were distant rolls of thunder.

  A storm was coming.

  20

  Danny was scared, and Christina didn’t blame him.

  It had been dark outside all afternoon. The clouds rolled in after lunch and settled stubbornly over the safe house. They had to turn all the lights on inside just to see around the house. The thunder started at around three. Each time it boomed, Danny grabbed hold of Christina a little harder as they sat on the squashy old sofa in the front room, listening to the wind whistle down the chimney into the empty grate. He had quite a grip for a child, and Christina had never known him more interested in the story books she’d read him all afternoon. That was his way of taking his mind off the real world and they were a good distraction for Christina, too. She’d been on edge since the moment she’d woken up, and she could tell Alec and Frank were nervous too, though they’d never have admitted it. Every half hour, while Alec kept an eye on Christina and Danny, Frank made a tour of the house, checking each room. He didn’t normally do that. When Christina asked him if everything was okay, he said, ‘Of course, my dear,’ in his gentle West Country accent. But then he went back to prowling round the house.

  There was an especially loud roll of thunder. Danny whimpered, then started when it was followed by a flash of lightning. ‘Don’t be scared,’ Christina told him. ‘It’s only a silly old storm. We’re nice and safe inside, and the sun will probably come out tomorrow.’

  ‘I want my mum,’ Danny said.

  ‘I know, love. You’ll see her soon . . .’

  Another roll of thunder and a flash of lightning. There was a loud bang. The lights in the front room where they were sitting flickered, then died. They were plunged into half-light, half-darkness.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Christina whispered, her voice stressed.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ Frank said. He didn’t sound gentle any more. ‘Alec, watch them.’

  Christina and Danny gripped each other on the sofa. Danny buried his head in her chest, and she put one arm around his shoulders to comfort h
im. His body was shaking with tears. Alec stayed by the door. His eyes flickered between the two windows that looked out on to the grounds. Christina didn’t find it reassuring. He looked like he was searching

  for somebody.

  A minute passed. The lights switched on again. Frank reappeared. ‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘It’s just the trip switch again. I think there must have a been a power surge from that there lightning.’ He held up a cordless phone handset. ‘I think the landline’s down too. I can’t get a dialling tone.’

  Alec chewed his lower lip. ‘I could drive somewhere,’ he said. ‘Report it.’

  Frank considered that for a few seconds, then shook his head. ‘Best we both stay here,’ he said. ‘They’ll get it sorted out soon enough.’ He walked over to Danny and ruffled his hair. ‘Don’t you worry about a silly old storm, my little lad.’ He looked at Christina. ‘Nor you neither,’ he said.

  He left the room just as another crack of thunder rolled overhead. Alec took up his position at the door. Christina continued to hug the little boy. She could hear Frank’s footsteps upstairs as he walked from room to room.

  17.00 hrs. Brynmawr, Wales.

  Sandy Fishwick was seriously considering handing in his resignation.

  Sandy loved old black and white movies. The older the better – you could keep your Marvel and your Bond, as far as he was concerned. He was looking forward to his shift being over, because then he could clock off, jump in the car and head home to Bristol for his day off. If the traffic was kind, he could be home in time to put the kids to bed, then he and the missus could call out for an Indian and crank up an old Hitchcock on Netflix.

  The colonel, as everyone in his guard detail referred to him, was comfortably the least likeable principal he’d ever had. Worse than the Saudi sheikh who’d insisted on hookers of three different nationalities – ‘one white, one black, one yellow’ was his regular order – every night for a week. At least he’d tipped them a month’s wages for carrying out the grim nightly task of standing outside the door of his suite at the Savoy, listening to his nocturnal entertainment. Worse than that leftie leader of the opposition. He’d been a real peach, constantly slagging off the police and the armed forces in Sandy’s presence, conveniently forgetting that Sandy was wearing body armour because he’d be in the line of fire if somebody took a pot shot. Worse even than that odious businessman who’d been afforded government protection because MI6 had credible evidence of a threat against him, and who expected Sandy to fetch him cups of tea and even – get this – shine his shoes.