The Watchman

by Chris Ryan

  He was just supposed to do the chopping, he reminded himself Fine, except that the only time Five were likely to get anywhere near Meehan was when the former MI-5 agent had finished his killing spree and was ready to give himself up. Killing Meehan at that point would be little more than a gesture.

  Right now Meehan would be watching Widdowes, just as he had watched Fenn and Gidley. He'd be lying up nearby, entirely aware of the lookalike and the rest of their strategies, waiting for the moment when they stopped fully believing that the attack would come. The moment when they persuaded themselves they had won.

  And then, with blinding and brutal speed, he would strike.

  Alex had to persuade the Box team to let him take over or at least participate in the guarding of George Widdowes. He'd have to get the MI-5 officer back into his house so that, like a tiger to a tethered goat, Meehan would be drawn to his prey.

  The idea was a good one. It could work. He'd have to talk to Dawn about it. They would have yet another row. He discovered he was rather looking forward to it.

  Don Hammond's funeral was the usual sombre affair. There was an obvious police presence, some blocking off the traffic, with many of the officers carrying side arms.

  Less obvious was the standby squadron, who were waiting in Range Rovers at several of the surrounding crossroads, armed with MP5 Heckler and Koch submachine guns.

  Alex arrived in the dark Principles suit that he used for Regimental funerals and metropolitan area surveillance, and was nodded through by the adjutant, also suited.

  In the church there were somewhere between a hundred and fifty and two hundred people. There were several rows of soldiers from the Credenhill base, all looking uncharacteristically smart in their Number Two uniforms, and in front of them a tight group of friends, relations and other uniformed soldiers surrounded Karen Hammond, Don's widow, and Cathy, his daughter.

  Moving hesitantly forward, Alex met Karen's eye. She smiled and beckoned him, and a place was made for him in the row behind her. Silently she reached out her hand and equally silently Alex took it. She's as brave as Don was, he thought, turning to the coffin which stood, flag-draped, in the aisle. On it lay his friend's medals, his blue stable belt and his sand- coloured SAS beret.

  144w dares wins.

  Not every time, thought Alex, catching sight of eight-year-old Cathy Hammond's grief-whitened face. Not every time.

  In the churchyard Alex allowed his attention to wander as the chaplain spoke the now familiar words of the funeral service. His eyes travelled over the bare heads and the bemedalled uniforms, and the relatives' dark coats and suits. Karen and Cathy were both weeping now, and Karen's family pressed protectively around them. The eyes of the other soldiers, for the most part, were dowutumed.

  Alex himself felt empty. Tears were not what he owed Don Hammond.

  And then, as the three shots were fired over the open grave, Alex's wandering gaze met a pair of eyes that were not downturned that were levelled with deathly directness at his own. The man, who was wearing a nondescript suit and tie, and had a curiously ageless appearence, was standing on the other side of the grave behind Karen's family, and Alex realised with stunned disbelief that he knew this narrow face and pale unblinking stare, that he had seen photographs of this man in Thames House, that he was standing just three yards away from Joseph Meehan, the Watchman.

  As their eyes locked, Alex felt his scalp crawl and his heart slam in his chest.

  No, it was impossible.

  Impossible but true. It was Meehan and he had come to scope out his pursuer.

  In the icy flame of his regard was a challenge, a statement of ruthlessness and contempt. I can come and go as I please, it said even here, even now, in the secret heart of your world and there is nothing that you can do to prevent me.

  And Meehan was right. At that moment there was nothing in the world that Alex could do. Sympathy for Karen Hammond and the dignity of the occasion paralysed him. He couldn't speak, let alone jump over the open grave and grab the man by the throat.

  There was a loud clatter overhead as three Chinook helicopters flew past in formation. Alex held Meehan's pale gaze, but the ranks of mourners shifted as they looked upwards, and when they re-formed, moments later, the cold-eyed face had vanished.

  Alex peered desperately over the open grave as the churning helicopter blades faded away, but the fly-past had marked the end of the service. As the Hammond family and their friends moved away from the graveside, the regimental personnel held back, Alex among them. Short of elbowing his way through the uniformed men he was trapped.

  Finally, the crowd began to disperse. Moving as fast and as forcefully as he was able, given the circumstances, Alex made his way to the churchyard exit.

  There was no sign of anyone resembling Meehan either inside or outside. Running to the head of the road he challenged the two uniformed troopers on duty there.

  Had a man in his mid-thirties just passed them fair-skinned, dark-haired, five ten, grey suit tough-looking... The words spilt out but the troopers shook their heads. No one like that. No one on his own.

  Ignoring the curious stares of the exiting mourners, Alex ran on ahead of the roadblock to the nearest Range Rover and repeated the questions.

  Same answer. No one answering that description.

  Shit. Shit. Had he imagined seeing Meehan? Had the image of the man been preying on his mind to the point where he was beginning to hallucinate? Was Meehan now stalking him?

  Tucking himself into the roadside, Alex called Dawn on his mobile and in guarded terms, given that he was using an open line reported the incident.

  "How sure are you that it was him?" Dawn asked.

  "Not a hundred per cent. And if it was he could be anywhere by now."

  "Why would he want to show himself like that?"

  "Check me out, perhaps. Let me know he can come and go as he pleases."

  Dawn was silent. Alex could tell that she was unconvinced that the man had been Meehan.

  "Look," he went on, "I've got a possible regimental lead. It's not much but it's a possibility. Someone who knew our man. Someone he might have talked to."

  "Do you need my people's help?"

  "No. Leave it to me."

  "OK, then. Keep me informed."

  She broke the connection and Alex looked around. Several people were staring at him and he self-consciously brushed down his suit. He had meant what he said to Dawn. Meehan could be anywhere by now. There was no chance of catching him without involving the entire Hereford and Worcester police forces and probably not even then. And, if he was honest with himself, he hadn't been a hundred per cent sure it was Meehan.

  Much more constructive to work out where his base was. There had to be some secret location he returned to between the killings. An inner-city flat? A hostel or bed and breakfast? A caravan park? The only person who might possibly have a clue as to the whereabouts of that location and it was still a hell of a long shot was Denzil Connolly. Of those who trained Meehan, according to Frank Wisbeach, Connolly was the only man who really got to know him. If he could find Connolly, Alex reflected, he was in with a chance of finding Meehan. He might, at the very least, learn something about the man he was pursuing.

  "Looking for a lift back to camp?"

  It was the driver of one of the Range Rovers and Alex accepted gratefully. At the Credenhill base he made his way to the sergeants mess, where he was formally invited in as an officer, he no longer had the automatic right of entry.

  After an SAS funeral there was always a big piss-up. Alex had been to more of these than he cared to remember and if there were ever times that the Regiment genuinely resembled the family it claimed itself to be these were they.

  The mess was a large room dominated by a bar and furnished with oxblood Chesterfield furniture. The floor was carpeted in regimental blue and the walls were hung with paintings of former SAS soldiers, captured flags and weapons, and the plaques of foreign units. An impressive collection of si
lverware was also on display.

  Men poured in in groups, animated now and relieved that the austerity and the tears of the funeral were behind them. A sheepishly grinning Ricky Sutton arrived on crutches, newly released from hospital, and was greeted with a ragged cheer.

  Most of the men headed straight for the bar, and by the time the Hammond contingent and the other wives and relatives were ushered in there were the makings of a fine party.

  Alex, still shaken by the incident at the funeral, did not immediately move to join his friends. Seeing Bill Leonard, he cornered him and asked him if he had any idea of Denzil Connolly's whereabouts.

  The burly lieutenant-colonel did not look best pleased to be questioned on this subject. Curtly he assured Alex that the Regiment had no contact information of any kind on Denzil Connolly. Then, excusing himself, he moved away.

  The Hammond family came in, and Alex was among the group who moved to greet them.

  "Don really loved looking for trouble with you fellers," said Karen, teary-eyed and shaky but somehow still smiling.

  "I'd never have tried to take him away from all that."

  "He was the best," said Alex gently.

  "Best soldier. Best mate."

  She wept against his shoulder for a few moments, then wiped her eyes and put on a brave grin.

  "Where's that posh girl of yours, then? Don told me she was a smasher!"

  "She couldn't come," said Alex.

  "She got stuck in London. Work."

  Karen smiled.

  "Well, don't leave it too long. You'll need a nice smart wife when they make you a general."

  "Yeah, well, it hasn't quite got to that yet."

  "Don't leave it too long, Alex. Promise me.

  He smiled.

  "I won't, Karen. I promise."

  For now, though, there was something he had to follow up and he made his way to a knot of old lags who were clustering around the RSM at the bar.

  "Afternoon, Alex, you warry old bugger. I mean sir," said the RSM, addressing his beer glass.

  "Word is you enjoyed yourself last night!"

  The others smirked.

  "I may have taken a drink," admitted Alex.

  "Or two."

  "In mixed company?"

  "That's not impossible either."

  The RSM nodded.

  "Well, you look like shite today. Serves you right. Poor old Don, eh."

  "Poor old Don," Alex echoed.

  "He had a very bad last minute and I hope Karen never hears the details of that. But you should have seen him hanging out of that chopper with the SLR and Kalashnikov rounds screaming around him, blazing away with the old five point five. Talk about Death from Above."

  The RSM nodded approvingly.

  "I hear you didn't do so badly yourself?"

  Alex shrugged.

  "We were lucky. We could easily have lost a lot more guys.

  Next time they should just let the hostages get eaten or chopped to pieces or whatever."

  "You said it," said the RSM, wordlessly handing his glass back for refilling. He glanced at Alex's suit.

  "Heard you'd been pulled out of Freetown ahead of time.

  Spooky business, I heard."

  "That sort of thing. I'm trying to get hold of someone you may be in touch with. Denzil Connolly."

  The NCOs looked at each other.

  "Long time since I heard that name," said a sniper team leader named Stevo.

  His tone was careful.

  Alex said nothing. There was no communications web more intricate, secretive and subtle than that which existed between British army sergeants. He had been part of it once, but it was closed to him now. He could only file his request and wait.

  "There was some strange stuff with Den Connolly," said the RSM, glancing at Alex.

  "And that looks like an empty glass in your hand. I thought you officers were supposed to set an example."

  For the time being, Alex knew, that was as far as things would go. An overfull pint glass was handed splashily over. Someone spoke through a microphone over the laughter and hubbub. There was going to be an auction of Don Hammond's kit, with the proceeds going to Karen and Cathy.

  Two hours later Alex's head was singing with Stella Artois and the shock of seeing Meehan at the funeral had receded. Stepping out into the sudden silence of the evening drizzle, he made his way across the tarmac to the guardhouse. After the original Sterling Lines barracks in Hereford, the Credenhill camp seemed a vast high-tech sprawl more like a software park or an airport than anything else.

  Sticking his head into the guardhouse, he asked if someone could ring for a minicab to take him back into Hereford. As it turned out, one of the duty policemen was going that way and offered him a ride.

  Denzil Connolly. The name bounced back and forth in Alex's mind. In case anyone just happened to remember anything, he'd left his mobile number with Stevo and the

  RSM.

  There were two ways to catch a predator like Meehan. One was to peg out a bait and lure him into the open, the other was to find his lair and stake it out.

  If necessary, Alex intended to try both.

  Back at the flat; he rang Sophie. Her home number was engaged, her mobile switched off. Depressed by the afternoon's events, fuzzy-headed with alcohol, he considered giving Gail a ring. For a long and tempting moment he felt her body against him, soft and unresisting.

  At the last minute he decided otherwise. Changing into a sweat top and shorts, he made his way outside to the pavement and began jogging towards the outskirts of the city. It was raining harder now, the light was beginning to go and most of the shops were closed. The pavements were all but deserted, but once again Alex was visited by the unpleasant suspicion that he was being watched.

  Get a grip, he told himself Paranoia isn't going to help.

  Soon he was on an empty road leading southwards. The rain, cold and clean, lashed his face and hands, his breathing steadied and found its rhythm, and his mind began to clear. He had to watch his step, he told himself, or at least be a bit more discreet. Last night he would probably get away with on the grounds that his best friend had just been killed and everyone was entitled to go crazy from time to time, but if he made a habit of it people were going to start thinking he was losing his grip. And when that occurred, well, you only had to look at Frank Wisbeach to see what happened when a good soldier started to unravel.

  Fired with a new resolve, he pushed himself hard on the five miles or so back to Hereford. The rain continued, it was lancing down now as the light faded, and he could feel the beginnings of a new blister on one heel.

  Back in the flat he showered and tried Sophie again. Same result: home engaged, mobile switched off. Quickly he dressed, packed a suitcase, locked up the flat and climbed into the pearl-white Kaman-Ghia. Pointing the bonnet towards the Ledbury Road, he set out for London. He was glad to have the car back and to feel the cheerful growl of the 1835cc engine as the rain lashed the windscreen in front of him. Ray Temple had accepted the thirty-year-old shell in lieu of a debt two years earlier and rebuilt the car from the wheels up, selling it to his son for the altogether bargain price of,~50OO.

  The car could really move, but on this occasion Alex made sure to keep well within the speed limit. Whatever the alcohol limit was these days, he was uneasily certain that he was in excess of it. He'd only had a couple of pints at the funeral well, perhaps it had been three but there had probably been a fair bit left over from the night before. Having said that, he'd run the best part of ten miles before starting to drive, which would have burnt off a few units, surely?

  Best to take no chances, to take a leaf out of the Dawn Harding school of motoring. While waiting at traffic lights outside Cirencester he dialled her number.

  "So what are you up to?" he asked her.

  "What business is that of yours?"

  "What's his name, Harding?"

  "Grow up, Temple."

  "Can we make a date for tomorrow morning?" />
  "Any particular reason?"

  "Nothing I can talk about on an open line. How about breakfast?"

  "OK. Eight o'clock outside my office building."

  The phone went dead.

  In Western Avenue, as he entered London, he spotted a rose seller standing in a lay-by. He was unlikely to find any florists open, Alex thought, so he bought twelve quid's worth the rest of the man's stock. Mindful of Dawn's words, he took off the cellophane wrappers and bunched the blooms all together. The roses were pretty knackered-looking and certainly had no scent to speak of- they still looked as if they'd been bought in a lay-by, in other words but they were better than nothing.

  Half an hour later he was parking the Kaman-Ghia in Pavilion Road, off Sloane Street. The rain had stopped and the pavements and the roads shone silver beneath the street lights. Tucking the roses under one arm and tidying his hair with the fingers of the other hand, he made his way towards the building containing Sophie's flat.

  Glancing up at her window he saw her, wearing the white to welling bathrobe 'that she'd stolen from the Crillon Hotel in Paris. She was in her bedroom, staring out eastwards over the city. And then a second dressing-gowned figure appeared beside her, placed an arm round her shoulder.

  Who the fuck was that, Alex asked himself, his heart plummeting. Stella, perhaps? But he already knew it wasn't Stella. Running back to the car he rummaged inside his travel bag, pulled out a pair of image-stabilised Zeiss binoculars and focused on the two figures.

  It was a bloke. Some fashionably stub bled fucker. And very much at home, thank you very much, with his arm round

  Sophie, who looked like the cat who'd had the cream. Well, she certainly hadn't wasted any bloody time, had she?

  Stupid bastard, he thought, hurling the roses up the middle of Pavilion Road.

  Stupid bastard!

  SEVENTEEN.

  "So," said Dawn, stirring the cup of brick-red tea that the cafe owner had just placed in front of her.

  "Is this going to be a long argument or a short one?"

  "I've paid for a long one," said Alex.