The must-read new blockbuster thriller

by Tony Kent

  A trail of destruction had followed them from London to Belfast. There was doubtless more to come. They could not go back. They did not know who to trust. All they could do was keep moving forward. Uncover the truth. They would only do that – they would only survive – by staying single-minded. Whatever confusion or connection was going on between them, it would have to wait.

  Moving towards the large mirror that sat on the room’s small desk, Sarah glanced at her reflection. The last few days had taken their toll; the price paid was visible on her usually fresh face. Her jaw was blackened from the blow of the night before. The skin beneath her eyes was darkened in a way it had never been. Even her usually vibrant brunette hair was matted and messy.

  Her clothes were just as worn; her usually pristine white blouse hinted at what she had endured while her black pencil-skirt had seen better days.

  Turning away, Sarah switched on the television and reached into the cheap handbag that Michael had bought for her at the airport. Inside was a basic cosmetic kit. Sarah had little vanity, and what there was had been eradicated by recent experience. But with God-knows-who still searching for her, she could not attract attention by looking like a woman who had just been through hell.

  With one eye on the mirror, Sarah changed the television channel to CNN in time for the headlines. She listened to the mid-morning anchor while working to hide the fist-sized bruise on her jaw. There was little on the bulletin relating to the death and destruction she and Michael had lived through in the past eighteen hours. The exception was the report of the Islington car bomb, but even that story lacked several key elements. No mention of her involvement, or even of Jack Maguire.

  A feeling of dread grew in her gut as she changed the channel to find BBC Northern Ireland. Sarah reasoned that the murder of a man in a university office would warrant a mention on local news, especially with the connection to Eamon McGale. Wrong. The short report ended with no indication that anything had occurred.

  ‘Anything on the news?’

  Michael had a towel wrapped around his waist and was using a second to dry his hair. The confidence had returned to his voice, as if he had forgotten the exchange that had passed between them. It was what Sarah needed to hear.

  ‘Not a thing.’

  Sarah noticed the deep black bruises that littered Michael’s battered body. She tried to ignore them as she continued.

  ‘Not even on the local news.’

  ‘And what time is it now?’

  ‘They were the 10.30 headlines.’

  ‘Shit!’ The development was not unexpected, but it was still unwelcome. ‘Then that settles it. We need to go ask for help.’

  Sarah nodded. They had already discussed the possibility.

  The absence of a report of their attacker’s death could mean only one thing: whoever was behind this had enough influence even here to have the body removed and the story suppressed.

  What had happened in London made it no surprise that the English press had been compromised. But the silencing of the story in Belfast told them that the tentacles of influence spread further still. Proof that the people behind Daniel Lawrence’s death held as much sway in Ulster as in London.

  Michael’s boyhood streets were, it seemed, no safer than those they had left behind.

  ‘But how do you know he’ll help you?’ Sarah asked. ‘It’s been eighteen years.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Michael replied. ‘He’ll help me. He’s my brother.’

  FIFTY

  ‘I need the 32 Counties Bar on the Falls Road. You going near?’

  The broad accent Michael used surprised Sarah for just a moment. Then she remembered the importance of appearing local, to avoid attracting attention. While justified, it did not make the change from soft brogue to ‘street’ Belfast any easier on the ear.

  ‘No problem, big man. Jump in.’

  The driver’s real voice was as heavy as Michael’s false one. It made the charade even clearer.

  Sarah and Michael climbed into the rear of the taxi. A passenger was already inside. Sarah was shocked for a moment, before remembering Michael’s explanation of how black cabs operated in Belfast.

  Unlike taxis in London and pretty much everywhere else, Ulster cabs did not just go where the passenger asked. Instead the drivers would place a placard on their dashboard, stating the direction in which they were travelling. Any passenger going that way could jump in but they would rarely enjoy an empty cab. The system only worked if the driver picked up as many passengers as possible.

  ‘You’ve been in the wars, son.’

  The third passenger was a woman, elderly, with more bags at her feet than someone of her size could carry. Her attention was focused on Michael’s facial injuries. Sarah had purchased a cheap black polo shirt to replace the ripped and bloodstained t-shirt from the night before. But there was little she could do to disguise the damage on his face.

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ Michael replied, sounding light-hearted. ‘Just an accident playing hurling.’

  ‘Ah, that’s a rough game. What’s a handsome boy like you doing playing that?’

  ‘Glutton for punishment I guess! So are you heading home?’

  Michael’s feigned interest in the passenger’s life and family – and the skilful way in which he deflected questions about his own – made sure that when their fellow passenger later remembered her cab companion, her mind would give no thought to his cuts and bruises.

  They reached her home first. Michael helped her inside with her bags. After their conversation it would have seemed strange not to offer. He then returned to the cab, climbed in and forced a smile at Sarah.

  Sarah had not spoken at all since taking the cab. This made sense. Just as Michael was speaking with a long-lost accent to blend in, so Sarah had avoided the attention her American tones could draw. But now they were alone and still Sarah did not speak.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Michael had waited a further two minutes before breaking the silence.

  Sarah looked at him, meeting his gaze. It was as if she had not registered the question, just the sound. It did not surprise her; she was still caught up in her mixed emotions towards the man beside her.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Sarah did not want Michael to know her thoughts. She looked around, searching for a change of subject.

  ‘I was just, just distracted by the painting on the streets. On the sidewalks.’

  It wouldn’t take Michael’s forensic mind to see through the diversion. But if he knew what was concerning her he did not show it. Instead he played along.

  ‘Have you never seen pictures of the Falls Road?’

  He followed Sarah’s eyes to the colourful kerbstones they were passing.

  ‘No,’ Sarah replied. ‘And I don’t get it. Why are they painted those colours?’

  ‘Because this is a Catholic area. Very Catholic. Which makes it Republican. The kerbstones are painted the colours of Ireland’s flag, alternating green, white and gold. It’s the locals’ way of saying that they don’t regard themselves as British. That Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland are one country.’

  ‘That’s a pretty powerful statement,’ Sarah replied, now genuinely interested. ‘What about the other side? Don’t they complain?’

  Michael laughed at the question. It was a genuine reaction. It lightened the mood.

  ‘Complaining isn’t really their style, Sarah. The pen might be mightier than the sword, but a car bomb trumps them both. Besides, they can’t complain when they do exactly the same thing. The kerbstones on the next street are all painted red, white and blue!’

  ‘Are you serious? You mean this street is Republican and the next one’s Unionist? But they’re so close!’

  ‘Belfast isn’t a big place. The two sides live on top of one another. That’s why things got so bloody.’

  Sarah fell back into silence. A more comfortable one this time.

  The street passed by as they drove the l
ast mile of the Falls Road, which stretched away from the centre of Belfast. Sarah had heard of the place, of course, but only now did she realise that it was a literal stone’s throw from its Protestant/Loyalist opposite, the Shankill Road.

  ‘How far to go?’

  ‘Five minutes in this traffic,’ Michael replied.

  ‘Are you ready to see him?’

  ‘No. But I probably never will be, so we might as well get it over with.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  ‘You have a package for Mr Francis.’

  Joshua’s words were a statement rather than a question. They left the receptionist at Belfast’s palatial Europa Hotel in no doubt that her guest was correct.

  ‘Here you are, sir.’

  The small blonde who manned the front desk was barely out of her teens. She bent down and grasped the handle of a large metallic briefcase, delivered less than an hour before. It was heavy enough to cause her difficulty as she lifted the case onto the desk, but Joshua plucked it up like it contained nothing weightier than air.

  ‘Do you need any help with your luggage, sir?’

  The receptionist’s words trailed off towards the end. Joshua had already turned and was walking towards the bank of elevators that would take him to his room.

  He stepped into a lift half-full with passengers and pressed the ‘8’ button. To those around him he must have seemed the very picture of professional calm. A businessman, probably. They could not detect the emotion that simmered beneath the calm demeanour.

  Right now, Joshua was a dangerously coiled spring.

  Anticipation was often the most thrilling aspect of Joshua’s career. He could visualise every possible scenario that could arise on an assignment. It was an essential skill; the only way to be prepared for anything. It was this visualisation that would usually send Joshua’s heart racing with excitement. But this time, uniquely, it filled him with dread.

  Joshua had no doubt that Stanton was willing to live up to his threats. That failure would cost Joshua’s family dear. This alone would have removed the thrill of the hunt. But it was not alone. Not any more. Even now, as he exited the lift and followed discreet signs to his room, one thought continued to dominate his mind.

  Joe Dempsey.

  The news that Dempsey was closing in on Stanton had been strangely welcome at first. It meant that – should Joshua fail – he would die with the knowledge that Stanton, too, was doomed to a short life. To be hunted by the most gifted soldier Joshua had ever met. But that feeling did not last. Not once Joshua remembered exactly what he was going up against.

  It had been the journey to Belfast that had brought the truth home for him. Ulster. The one post to which every British soldier of his generation had been deployed. And the very first place that Joshua had seen Joe Dempsey in the field. It was here that Joshua had seen how good his protégé really was. Looking back, it was a memory that made him fear the worst. That, this time, there would be only one winner.

  It was not the thought of losing that concerned him. Joshua had no wish to die, but he was very aware of his own mortality. He had to be, in his profession. No, it wasn’t the loss. What worried Joshua was the consequence of that loss. Dempsey would find Stanton. Joshua was sure of that, just as he was sure that Dempsey would act with extreme prejudice when he did so. But what Joshua could not be sure of – what he could not count on – was the timeframe. Even the shortest break between Joshua’s failure and Dempsey’s revenge was a risk for Joshua’s family. In that time – however short – they would be at Stanton’s mercy. A mercy that Stanton absolutely lacked.

  Joshua could not let that happen. He could not expose his family to that risk. And that meant that Joshua could not afford to lose.

  The thought continued to trouble Joshua ten minutes later, as he opened the metal briefcase inside his locked room and began another process demanded by his compulsions.

  It was a ritual he had followed countless times.

  Similar packages had been delivered to him at hotels or deposit boxes or Western Union outlets in every corner of the globe. They contained everything a skilled professional would need to terminate his unknowing target. But by their nature these items were not selected or packed by Joshua, and so upon receipt he would strip them down to ensure that they lived up to his exacting standards.

  The ritual – the stripping of the weapon and the detailed examination that followed – had prepared Joshua mentally for decades. Had calmed his fears, calmed his mind. Except this time his mind was on more than the cold steel in his expert hands. This time the monotony of the examination was broken by Stanton, by Dempsey, and by the threat that each man posed to Joshua’s own family.

  He brought the military-standard Schmidt & Bender 3-12 × 50 PM II telescopic sight to his eye. Manipulated its range to his satisfaction. Continued for longer than was strictly necessary; his obsessive compulsion in action. It should have settled his mind.

  Instead it just reminded him of that Ulster mission from long ago.

  Dempsey had been fresh out of the hellish SAS selection process back then, but still he joined that first mission with an already fearsome reputation.

  The young officer had sailed through advanced training with scores that rivalled even Joshua’s own. It had been inevitable, then, that they would be matched together for what was to follow. And so months were spent shoulder to shoulder as Joshua strove to raise Dempsey even further, to the level required of the regiment’s most elite section: the Chameleon Unit.

  But training was no reality. The true test had come in the field.

  Joshua had repeated this mantra from Dempsey’s first day. He had refused to recognise the rookie’s potential. Years of active service in the most dangerous corners of the globe told Joshua that being good on the training ground meant nothing. To win his genuine respect, Dempsey had to prove himself under fire. It was an opportunity that was not long delayed.

  Three months of intensive drill-training in the world’s least hospitable environments had been cut short by orders to return to Hereford. Joshua and Dempsey had obeyed, arriving in time to join an equipped and briefed assault team as they prepared to leave the base. The two men had collected their equipment and reached the main unit as soon as they set foot on the ground, and received their own briefing in the air above the Irish Sea. It had been an irregular way to begin a virgin mission, but Joe Dempsey had shown no nerves. No fear.

  And, for the first time, Joshua had allowed himself to be impressed.

  The capital of lawlessness in Northern Ireland at the time was South Armagh, nicknamed ‘Bandit Country’. At the start of Joshua’s career it had been heavily garrisoned by armoured military installations. By Dempsey’s day these were fewer but they were still high in number. It had not seemed to matter. For years the county had been home to the worst of Republican terrorism. To fanatics whose solution to the Irish problem was murder and mayhem. With more violent death per head of population than any other part of the United Kingdom, this had been the Ulster where no soldier wanted to serve. And it was where Dempsey’s service really began.

  The mission had been simple. It was no less dangerous for that. An MI5 informant had passed on word of an upcoming robbery at South Armagh’s biggest cash reserve. It was a secure facility close to the border with the Republic; to this day Joshua wondered how it had taken the IRA so long to target the place. Back then it had been guarded by a detachment of the Army’s Rifles Regiment and a separate squad from the Royal Ulster Constabulary. That had been a deterrent, but, with enough cash inside to fund an attack of terrifying proportions, not deterrent enough.

  The IRA had assembled its best men to carry out the job. Their brief had been a clear one. Overwhelming violence would be the order of the day.

  By the time they had reached South Armagh, both Joshua and Dempsey were clear in their own roles. They were to be part of a ten-man unit. All would be deployed outside the facility, with men on either side of the depot’s walls. Once there each man
would secrete himself in the undergrowth, to await the arrival of the targets.

  The team had been stocked for a wait that could extend into days. Each man was prepared to stay hidden – motionless – for up to seventy-two hours. Such early deployment had been deemed essential; the area would be under IRA observation well before the assault. Even a hint of SAS presence would have seen the raid abandoned.

  But no such hint had been given. Each man had held his position undetected for over sixty hours. Had ignored the pain and discomfort. And so all had been ready to move when the moment came.

  The sudden arrival of the IRA team would have been overwhelming, had it not been expected. Thirty men, hand-chosen to carry out the military-style raid. Half of that number had been divided into smaller groups to cover the depot’s exits, while the other half had accompanied a heavily armoured truck as it launched an attack on the front gate.

  Only the thirtieth man had remained hidden. Posted to the surrounding hills, from where he would provide sniper cover that very few could equal.

  The roar of the lorry’s engine had been the unit’s call-to-arms. The signal to move had been prearranged: the moment the lorry struck the depot’s secure front gate, when the largest number of the IRA team would be committed to the attack. That timing would raise the terrorist death toll to its maximum.

  Joshua could still remember the deafening sound of metal upon metal. It had left no doubt that the front gate had been breached. No doubt that it was time to act.

  Nine expertly trained soldiers had risen to their feet and moved in unison, flanking the depot from every direction. The tenth man – Dempsey – had remained in place, ready for a very particular role in the counter-attack.

  It was Dempsey’s clinical execution of this role that Joshua most remembered. And which he now most feared.