by Chris Ryan
The waitress brought over their drinks. Cooper unscrewed the cap on his bottle of water and tipped the contents into the glass. Porter didn’t touch his drink.
‘Dom told us you were lined up to meet some big-shot Yank,’ he said. ‘When the snatch happened.’
Cooper stared at his overpriced water for a long moment.
‘The plan was to RV at the park and walk over to the private Georgetown club my contact frequents. Then we’d share the contents of the dossier with him, sound him out about a price. When Charles didn’t show, I assumed he’d abandoned our meeting.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘We agreed that if Charles suspected someone was watching him, he’d abort and we would reconvene the next day.’
‘Was he worried about being followed?’
‘We’re spooks, old boy. Paranoia comes with the territory. I can’t honestly recall the last time I took the same route to work two days in a row. That’s the difference between us and you chaps. You can clock off at the end of the day and go down the pub. We can’t.’
Porter ignored the dig. ‘But Street wasn’t being paranoid. Someone had his fucking number. They had eyes on him.’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
‘What happened after you realised the meeting was blown?’
Cooper seemed irritated by the question. ‘I don’t see how that’s relevant. You’re here to follow orders. Not play detective.’
‘We need to know about the fuckers on the snatch team. In case they try going after your mate again. If there’s an MO they used, that might help to identify them.’
Cooper made a helpless gesture with his hands. ‘Afraid I can’t help you there. I was on the other side of the park when those bastards grabbed Charles. By the time I realised what had happened, it was too late. They were long gone.’
‘What about the cops?’ Porter asked.
‘What about them?’
‘Dom said they took you in for questioning.’
‘More of a gentle chat, I’d say. There was no suspicion there. They simply knew I was an old friend of Charles’s and wanted to know if I’d heard from him since he went missing.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing incriminating. I knew they had Charles’s phone, so I mentioned that he’d stopped by at the embassy a few days earlier. I told them it was just a catch-up between two old friends.’
‘You didn’t mention the dossier?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Did they have any idea who might have been behind the snatch?’
‘They didn’t. But one of the detectives showed me some sketches of the attackers, based on eyewitness testimony. They wanted to know if I’d seen any of their faces before.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘The truth, of course. I didn’t recognise any of them.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘They were white. Tough-looking.’ Cooper regarded the ex-SAS men sitting opposite him. ‘Like you two, I suppose. But younger. And with side-partings.’
‘Probably not as good-looking,’ said Bald.
Porter blanked his mucker and kept his gaze fixed on Cooper. ‘Is there anything else? Some distinguishing feature? Anything that might help us.’
Cooper racked his brains. ‘Nothing comes to mind. Sorry. I wish I could be of more help.’
‘Did they have any marks? Scars?’
‘One of them had a tattoo on the side of his neck, as I recall. But that’s about it.’
‘What was the tat?’
‘It was quite striking. A skull on top of an oak tree branch, wearing a crown, I think. But I very much doubt it means anything to you two.’
Porter looked over at Bald, saw the troubled look on his face, the deep frown lines etching his brow.
‘This skull,’ Bald said. ‘Was it smoking a cigar?’
Cooper stared curiously at Bald. ‘Yes, I believe it was. Why?’
Bald hesitated before replying. ‘I’ve seen it before.’
‘Where?’
‘On a yacht, in the south of France,’ said Bald. ‘It’s a Russian mafia tattoo.’
SIXTEEN
Cooper sat very still. So did Porter.
‘Are you sure?’ Cooper asked Bald.
‘A hundred fucking per cent,’ Bald replied. ‘I was doing close protection work for a Russian oligarch at the time. Couple of the lads on the BG team had the same tattoo, like.’
‘But I’ve spent some time in Russia over the years. I’ve never seen that tattoo anywhere.’
‘It’s only used by one gang. They’re based in Rostov. Most of them are ex-Spetsnaz operators. That’s what the blokes on the yacht reckoned, when I asked them about it.’
Porter stared at Bald. What was Jock doing on a yacht with a bunch of Russian oligarchs? He thought again about the stories he’d heard about Bald, and wondered what other dark secrets his mucker was hiding from him. He shoved the thought aside, shifted his gaze back to Cooper.
‘Why would the Russian mafia be after Street?’
Cooper steepled his fingers on the table. ‘Because of what’s contained in the dossier.’
‘Why? What’s in the report?’
‘None of your damn business,’ Cooper responded coldly. ‘Last time I checked, neither of you are cleared for that particular conversation.’
‘We need to know why your mate’s in danger.’
‘No. No, you don’t. That information is Top Secret clearance only. You two dinosaurs are here to protect Charles and escort him home. Now I suggest you start doing your bloody job.’
Porter glanced over at his right. Bald was tightening his jaw, his anger building. They weren’t going to get anything more out of Cooper about the contents of the document. That much was clear. Porter decided to move the conversation on. Before Bald got really pissed off.
‘Dom told us you had an idea where Street might be hiding.’
Cooper nodded. ‘There’s a private retreat over in West Virginia. Down by Lake Fontaine.’
‘Why would Street be hiding there?’
‘Charles used to own a log cabin at the retreat. The two of us spent the weekends down by the lake, back when we were on our first assignment. We’d fish for trout, drink beer and talk about our plans for the future, as young men do.’ Cooper smiled at the memory but his voice was tinged with sadness. ‘Seems like a lifetime ago, now.’
‘Street still owns the place, all these years later?’
Cooper shook his head. ‘It belongs to his ex-wife now. She took it in the divorce. Charles was devastated, as I recall. I mean, that cabin meant a lot to him. But his ex lives down in Florida these days. She hardly uses it. The place is abandoned most of the year.’
‘How far is it from here?’
‘Four hours or so. Depending on traffic.’
‘Does anyone else know about it?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘And Street hasn’t tried to contact you since he went underground?’
Cooper smiled. ‘Charles knows better than that. The rule is, once you’re off the grid, you stay off. That means no phone calls. No Internet use. You avoid public places, or anywhere that requires ID or might have a security camera.’
‘How would Street even get to the retreat?’ Bald asked, rubbing his jaw. ‘He’s on foot. He couldn’t rent a car or catch a plane.’
‘There’s a Greyhound bus that leaves from Union Station and goes west all the way to Morgantown. Charles could have hitched a ride from there. Or taken a local bus.’
‘It’s do-able,’ Porter conceded.
‘The log cabin is our best bet. It’s the perfect hideout. There’s no Internet, no cell towers. You could hide out there for weeks without anyone seeing you.’
Cooper threw up his hands and let out a frustrated sigh.
‘Look, we’ve already wasted enough time here. Charles is in trouble. If the Russian mafia is after him, he’s in even greater danger than
I thought. We need to get over there and rescue him, before anyone gets there first.’
‘That’s assuming the Russians are still after Street,’ said Bald. ‘That’s a big fucking if.’
‘Jock’s right,’ Porter said. ‘The Russians are wanted by the cops. Their mugs are all over the news. If I was in their boots, I’d be looking to lay low and get out of the country as soon as possible.’
Cooper went quiet for a moment. ‘It’s not just the snatch team we have to worry about.’
Bald glowered at him. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘We have reason to believe that other parties are actively searching for Charles.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since about four hours ago.’ Cooper shifted. ‘Didn’t you know?’
‘We’ve been stuck on a plane for the past eight hours. They haven’t told us anything since the briefing yesterday afternoon, pal.’
‘Then you’re behind the curve.’
‘We’re used to that feeling,’ Bald growled.
Cooper said, ‘One of our local assets went down to Jacksonville, Florida, to speak to Charles’s ex-wife, on a box-ticking exercise. It was unlikely he’d travelled down there, but we wanted to be sure.’
‘And?’ Porter prompted.
‘She said two Americans in suits had already spoken to her. Asking questions about her ex-husband.’
‘When?’
‘First thing this morning.’
‘Who were they?’
‘We’re not sure. Government, possibly. FBI. Or private investigators, working for a third party.’
‘Or friends of the Russians,’ Bald suggested.
‘Possibly. But their accents suggest otherwise.’
Porter nodded.
‘Do they know about the log cabin?’ asked Bald.
‘I doubt it. She didn’t tell them anything, according to our people. But we need to get Charles out of there immediately. Before someone figures it out and gets there first.’
‘What’s the plan?’
Cooper said, ‘Do you have a car?’
‘Aye,’ said Bald. ‘A rental.’
‘We’ll use your wheels, then. It might draw less attention than my government-issue car. I very much doubt the Yanks have eyes on me, but in my line of work you can never be too careful.’
Porter said, ‘When do we leave?’
‘Now.’ Cooper was already reaching into his jacket for his wallet. ‘There’s no time to lose.’
Cooper settled the bill. He left a miserly two-dollar tip, grabbed his attaché case and slid out of the booth. Bald and Porter followed him out of the wine bar. The light blinded them as they emerged before making their way north on Connecticut Avenue, heading back in the direction of the Hilton. Cooper waited in the hotel lobby, tapping out emails on his iPhone while the two operators hurried up to their room to collect their passports, return plane tickets, bank cards and the rest of the walk-around cash fund. Everything they would need in case the situation on the ground changed and they had to bug out of the country at short notice.
‘This op’s turning into a right pain in the arse,’ Bald muttered as he gathered up his overnight bag.
‘It’s a four-hour drive into the country,’ Porter said. ‘Not a month-long stag in the jungle.’
‘Aye, but that’s not what Tannon told us. She said this would be an easy gig. A quick exfil. She didn’t tell us anything about some trek into the middle of the fucking sticks. I haven’t even had a chance to check out the local talent yet.’
‘You’re engaged, you dirty bastard.’
‘Doesn’t mean I can’t look.’
Porter sighed. ‘Do you think Cooper’s right about his mate hiding at the cabin?’
‘He’d better be. Otherwise I’ll wring that old twat’s neck for leading us on a wild goose chase.’
‘You don’t like him?’
‘Cooper? I trust him about as far as I can spit.’
‘He doesn’t seem so bad to me.’
‘He’s with Vauxhall. They’re all wankers, mate. I thought you’d have learned that by now.’
They slipped the Do Not Disturb card over the door handle. Returned to the lobby and RV’d with Cooper. The three of them rode the lift down to the underground car park. Four minutes later they were rolling out of the hotel garage, joining the wide lanes of traffic inching south down Connecticut Avenue.
Porter drove. Bald sat up front while Cooper took the rear passenger seat, his attaché case resting next to him. They motored south on 17th Street for a mile, past Lafayette Square and the heavy police presence around Pennsylvania Avenue. Crowds of tourists hogged the pavements, straining to catch a distant glimpse of the White House. At President’s Park they made a right onto East Street. East took them west towards the Kennedy Center and the Watergate complex, then across Theodore Roosevelt Bridge. Then back past Rosslyn and Arlington and Fairfax, retracing the route they’d taken along I-66 earlier that day.
Porter kept the Civic under sixty-five miles per hour as cars weaved seemingly at random between the lanes ahead of him. Big electronic signs at the side of the road warned motorists not to text while they drove, but apparently no one was paying attention to them. For a country that spent most of its time behind the wheel, Americans were crap drivers, thought Porter. Periodically he glanced at the rear-view and wing mirrors but there was no sign of anyone following them.
The clock on the Civic dash read 1539 hours.
They’d been on the road for thirty-three minutes. Cooper had reckoned it would take them around four hours to hit the retreat down by Lake Fontaine.
Which meant an ETA at the log cabin around 1900 hours. If they made good time, thought Porter, they’d hit the retreat at least an hour before sunset.The sooner this op is over, the sooner I can get back to my boring old life.
And the less likely I am to want a drink.
‘Can’t you go any faster?’ Cooper urged.
‘Not without drawing attention to ourselves,’ Porter responded. ‘We’re better off sticking to the speed limit.’
Bald said, ‘You really think Street will be at this cabin?’
Cooper said, ‘I’m certain of it. I know Charles better than anyone. Better than my own family, probably. I was best man at his wedding. We worked together for years. I know the way his mind works.’
‘And if he isn’t there?’
‘Then we’ll keep looking until we find him.’
‘Great,’ Bald moaned. ‘Just what I wanted to hear.’
Cooper stared at him. ‘Charles is one of my closest friends. I won’t simply abandon him to his fate. I’m sure you two know what I’m talking about.’
Bald turned in his seat. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Dom showed me your files. You two have a long history. She told me you’re old pals.’
‘Something like that, yeah,’ Porter replied tersely.
The truth was more complicated than that, he knew. Although their careers in the Regiment had overlapped, Bald and Porter had never been close during their time at Hereford. Bald hadn’t really bought into the ethos of the SAS in the same way as Porter and the other lads. He’d been more concerned with looking out for number one, never playing it safe, always taking risks if there was an advantage to be had. Everyone in the Regiment took risks, that was the nature of the beast, but some guys pushed it further than the rest. None more so than Bald.
In the years since they had begun working for Six, a bond had developed between Porter and Bald. They had each other’s backs, knew they could rely on one another in the field and had saved one another on more than one occasion. But there was still a distance there. Jock doesn’t give a shit about anything except himself, thought Porter. With a bloke like that, you never know what he’s capable of.
‘It’s vital that we get our hands on the dossier,’ Cooper went on. ‘Before anyone else does.’
Porter stole a glance at Cooper in the rear-view. ‘How do you kno
w Street has still got the document on him?’
‘That report is Charles’s golden ticket. The intelligence it contains is worth a small fortune. He won’t have dared let it out of his sight.’
Porter nodded but said nothing.
Not for the first time, he wondered what was in that dossier that made it so valuable.
1601 hours.
Three hours to go.
SEVENTEEN
They drove on.
After a hundred miles Cooper directed them to a junction leading off the interstate. Porter eased off the gas, let the speedometer dial down to forty miles per, and followed the turn-off as the road corkscrewed through barren fields and gentle rolling hills, signposted by the occasional grain silo or farmhouse. They were two hours from DC now, but in a whole other country. Urban poor, rather than gentrified elite. The houses here were big clapboard structures, surrounded by acres of farmland, passed down from generation to generation, worth the equivalent of a one-bedroom crack den in the capital.
Fifteen miles later they crossed the state line into West Virginia. There was no big sign to welcome them to the Mountain State. They were in Virginia one moment and the next they were crossing into the eastern panhandle of the sister state. The landscape stayed the same. Rural, hilly, poor. The kind of place that had swept the new president into power, even though he’d probably never visited the state in his long and privileged life. They passed through tombstone towns, main streets lined with struggling mom-and-pop stores and shabby restaurants offering home-cooked food for ten dollars a plate. The stench of desperation hung in the air. And anger, thought Porter. Every other car they passed was a pickup truck with an NRA sticker displayed prominently on the rear bumper. Political slogans about draining the swamp cluttered front lawns. American flags hung from the porches of rundown homes.
‘How much further?’ asked Porter.
‘Another two hours or so,’ Cooper said. ‘We’ll get there before it gets dark.’
‘What’s the plan, once we get to the cabin?’
‘We’ll find Charles, then return to DC. I’ll report back to Vauxhall on the secure line. Once I’ve spoken to Dom and received the all-clear, you’ll take him back to London.’