Global Strike

by Chris Ryan

  He shut the door, ran the sink tap and gently peeled back the makeshift dressing from his left forearm. The bite marks weren’t deep but they had broken the skin and he needed to keep the wound cleaned and sealed to ward off infection. He tested the water temperature and placed his forearm under the tap. The warm water stung as it flowed over the wound, washing out dirt and traces of fabric from the punctures.

  Porter kept his arm in place for one minute. Then he took an alcohol-free wipe from the packet and applied it to the bite marks. He tore the sterile dressing free from its plastic wrap and bound it over the wound several times, making sure that it was tight without restricting the blood flow. He popped a couple of painkillers into his mouth, washed them down with a gulp of cold water. Tossed the bloodstained shirt sleeve into the bin along with the swab packet and plastic wrapping.

  When he returned to the living room, he almost ran into Cooper. The guy was moving towards the living room doorway. Bald was sitting on the far end of the sofa, channel-hopping.

  ‘You off to bed as well?’ said Porter.

  Cooper patted his jacket pocket. ‘Popping outside. For a cigarette.’

  ‘You’re a smoker? You kept that bloody quiet.’

  ‘Only the occasional tab. Just when I’m stressed. Helps to clear my head. Excuse me.’

  He stepped past Porter and left the room, pacing down the hallway towards the kitchen. Porter watched him step through the French doors into the garden, then turned to Bald.‘What’s the deal with him, do you think?’

  ‘Cooper?’ Bald shrugged. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He seems more streetwise than your average Six handler.’

  ‘Maybe he’s got some hands-on experience. He was probably a field agent, back in the day.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Bald channel-flicked back to the news station and tossed the remote aside. ‘Who cares, anyway? At least he’s not a whining twat, like some of his mates at Vauxhall.’

  Something else occurred to Porter. ‘How do you think Six will get us across to Canada?’

  ‘Fuck knows, mate. But Moorcroft and his pals had better make up their minds toot-sweet. Because if the FBI links us to those murders, we’re done for.’

  ‘They’ll sort something out before then. Dom won’t leave us in the lurch. She wouldn’t do that to us.’

  Bald stared archly at his mucker. ‘Sure that’s not your manhood talking?’

  Footsteps padded towards them from across the hallway. Porter looked towards the door, expecting to see Cooper return from his fag break. Instead, Stillman stepped into the living room. He glanced around, noticing the empty seat on the sofa next to Bald.

  ‘Where’s your mate gone?’ he asked.

  ‘Out the back,’ Bald said. ‘Fag break.’

  Porter said, ‘How’s the other one?’

  ‘Sound asleep. Passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow. I left some water and painkillers on the side table for him.’

  Stillman narrowed his eyes.

  ‘What happened to him, if you don’t mind my asking? He looks like he’s been through the wars.’

  Here we go, thought Porter as he gritted his teeth. A bored housekeeper, poking his nose into our situation.

  ‘Something like that,’ he said, in a flat tone of voice that implied it wasn’t up for discussion.

  Stillman held up his hands like he was directing traffic.

  ‘Say no more, lads. I know my place. Now then, how about a drink? There’s coffee, Coke. I’ve got a drinks cabinet in the dining room if you’re in the mood for anything stronger.’

  ‘Whisky,’ said Bald. ‘Famous Grouse, if you’ve got it. Make it a big one.’

  ‘Got it.’ Stillman nodded at Porter. ‘What about you, fella?’

  Porter was tempted to ask for a double vodka. The voice inside his head was impossibly loud now. Repeating the same persuasive argument at him, over and over. Demanding that he give in.

  Just the one drink. A livener.

  Something to get you through the night.

  You know you want it.

  He noticed Bald glaring at him. The booze would have to wait, Porter realised bitterly. He knew that Bald would tear a strip out of him if he asked for a drink.

  ‘Give us a Coke,’ he said. ‘Diet.’

  ‘Anything else I can get you?’

  ‘A laptop, if you’ve got one to hand. We need to check out a few things online.’

  ‘No problem. There’s one in the study. Be right back.’

  He turned and left. Bald and Porter made themselves comfortable on the sofa. There had been some sort of summit meeting in Paris, according to the Ken and Barbie lookalikes on TV. All the major heads of state were in attendance. Crowds of protestors were gathered in the streets outside, hurling bricks at riot police. The screen cut to the world leaders, smiling for the cameras.

  The world’s going to shit, thought Porter, and all these wankers care about is a photo opportunity.

  A minute later Stillman returned with their drinks. Can of Diet Coke for Porter. Tumbler glass for Bald, topped up with two fingers of whisky, neat, with ice. Bald gave Porter a cheerful grin and a thumbs-up as he took a sip of his Famous Grouse.

  Porter stared forlornly at his Coke.Stillman ducked out of the room again, returning a short while later with a clunky old laptop wedged under his arm. Like one of the Beach Boys lugging a surfboard. He placed the laptop on the coffee table, flipped open the screen and tapped in a password on the prompt screen.

  ‘Is that everything, lads?’

  Bald nodded. ‘That’s it. You can go to sleep, if you want. We’ll be on stag throughout the night. We’ll be sure to keep the noise down, like.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, lads. Truth is, I hardly sleep these days. Ever since my Gemma passed on, bless her.’

  Bald set down his glass and glowered at the housekeeper. ‘Look, mate. We’re grateful for the hospitality. But do you mind giving us a bit of space, like?’

  Stillman looked disappointed. He seemed to make a heroic attempt to mask his feelings before admitting defeat.

  ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything else.’

  Porter and Bald spent the next few minutes browsing local news sites for West Virginia, searching for any information on the log cabin shootings. The first four sites they visited carried no news of the firefight. There were reports of an escaped inmate drowning in a river, a fire destroying a home in Huntington, a woman severely injured in a hit-and-run. A big feature on the opioid crisis. But nothing about the deaths of Wilbur and his mates.

  Which Porter thought was odd.

  ‘Maybe it’s too early,’ Bald suggested. ‘They’ve probably only just discovered the bodies.’

  They searched some more sites. Three minutes later, Cooper swept back into the living room, reeking of cigarette smoke. Bald glanced up at him.

  ‘Call that a fag break? You were gone for ages.’

  ‘Couldn’t find my Zippo. Had to fetch the cigarette lighter from the truck.’ He collapsed into the La-Z-Boy recliner opposite the sofa, tipped his head at the laptop. ‘Find anything?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Bald gave up and closed the screen lid. Stillman poked his head through the door, checking to see if Cooper wanted a drink. He asked for a gin and tonic, long on the tonic and short on the gin. Stillman fetched his drink and retreated back to the kitchen.

  Porter watched the others sip their drinks and felt thirsty.

  The voice grew louder inside his head.

  On the TV, Ken and Barbie were still recapping the day’s news. The images of the masked protestors had been replaced by footage of the new president on a stage, standing next to his Russian counterpart. They were pumping hands, grinning for the cameras. Two guys in silk suits, with ten thousand nuclear warheads between them. The handshake lasted about a minute. Both sides seemed keen to keep it going for as long as possible. As if they were competing to establish dominance. Eventually they unclasped their
hands and retracted them, both claiming victory. The president began fielding questions from the gaggle of journalists.

  Cooper laughed. ‘If only they knew what was really going on, they’d soon roast him.’

  Bald searched the agent’s face. ‘Knew what?’

  Cooper said nothing.

  Porter said, ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

  ‘It’s complicated. Not to mention dangerous to know.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit. We had a deal. Back at the cabin. You said you’d tell us what was in that dossier once we’d delivered you and your mate to the safe house. So start talking.’

  ‘I can’t see what good it will do. Why do you even care about what’s in the report?’

  ‘Whatever’s in there, people are willing to kill for it. The Russians already tried to lift your mate once. They might come for him again. Or someone else might try and nab him. We need to know what we’re up against here.’

  Cooper considered this for a moment while he sipped at his drink. ‘Fine. But what I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room.’

  ‘We used to be in the Regiment,’ Bald said. ‘We know how to keep our gobs shut. But you need to level with us.’

  Cooper let out a long sigh. He drained half his glass, then lifted his gaze to Bald and Porter.

  ‘Charles contacted me seven days ago, claiming he’d uncovered something massive in a report he’d put together. At the time, I was surprised to hear from him. We hadn’t spoken in quite some time.’

  ‘How long?’ Porter asked.

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘I thought you two were old mates.’

  ‘You know how it is. An old friend leaves a job. You promise to keep in touch, but you drift apart. Before you know it, years have passed.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Charles was desperate to meet up. He thought the information he’d uncovered might be worth something. I was apprehensive, but I agreed to take a look. So I invited him to my office. He brought along the dossier. I offered to show it to some contacts of mine, but he flat out refused. However, he agreed to show it to me.’

  Porter said, ‘What was in the report?’

  ‘Lots of things. It was standard fare, for the most part. Russian bribery, state corruption, corporate raiding. Nothing out of the ordinary. But one thing stood out. A claim made by one of Charles’s sources.’

  ‘I thought he didn’t have any sources left,’ Porter said, recalling what Tannon had told him at the op briefing.

  No one wants to buy what he’s selling.

  He’s taken to inventing stuff.

  ‘He still has a few good sources,’ Cooper said. ‘They tend to be of the more unsavoury variety. Organised criminals, gang leaders, right-wing militia leaders. The kind of characters most respectable agents would stay clear of. Which is probably why none of us had heard about it.’

  ‘Heard about what?’

  ‘The report mentioned the existence of a tape. Specifically, a sex tape the Russian mafia had managed to obtain.’

  ‘That’s what this is all about?’ Bald said. ‘Some dodgy footage of a celeb getting his end away?’

  Cooper shook his head. ‘Not a celebrity.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  Cooper looked down at his drink.

  ‘The President of the United States,’ he said.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  No one said anything for a few seconds.

  Bald watched Cooper intently. On the TV, the president gave the thumbs-up sign to the cameras before marching off the stage, cheerfully slapping the Russian president on the back.

  Porter craved a drink. Like nothing he’d ever craved before.

  He tried to shut out the voice and refocused on the agent. ‘That’s what Street found out?’ he said. ‘That the Russians have got a dodgy sex tape on the president?’

  ‘That’s what Charles’s source claimed.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ Bald said. ‘He must be knocking back the Viagra like Smarties, bloke his age. Ain’t as if he’s a model of health, either.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen the tape. Neither has Charles.’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ Porter said, ‘how can you be sure it even exists?’

  ‘There’ve been rumours floating around DC for months. Everyone in the intelligence community has heard them.’

  ‘What rumours?’

  ‘Claims that the Russians have got incriminating material on the new man in the White House. Everyone’s been looking hard. The president’s enemies at the FBI and CIA included. But no one could produce any tangible proof. Not until Charles’s source came forward with his claims.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Charles won’t reveal his name. But he’s a high-ranking Russian criminal who fell out of favour with the Kremlin after they seized his assets. He knows all the dark secrets.’

  ‘He might be bullshitting.’

  ‘He might. But his story adds up.’

  Bald said, ‘How did the Russian mafia get their hands on the tape in the first place?’

  Cooper said, ‘According to the dossier, the president made several trips to Moscow four years ago, before the election. His various businesses were in trouble, and one of his associates had agreed to introduce him to potential new investors. Among them were several key figures in the Russian criminal underworld.’

  ‘Why would the president risk going into business with Russian crime bosses?’ Porter asked.

  ‘He didn’t have a choice. The recession had hit his businesses hard. He lost a lot of money. He was sitting on a lot of devalued real-estate and construction projects with spiralling budgets, and the banks wouldn’t lend a penny.’

  ‘But he must have known taking money from the mafia would look bad.’

  ‘The money was hidden. No one would ever know about it. It was acid-washed and fronted by shell corporations and private foundations.’

  Cooper took a sip of his gin and tonic before he continued. ‘According to the dossier, while the president was being wined and dined in Moscow, the mafia learned about his addiction to prostitutes.’

  ‘The president’s got a thing for hookers?’ Porter asked.

  Bald grinned. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’

  Cooper said, ‘Charles’s source reckons this was common knowledge among the Russians. Every time the president flew in to Moscow, the crime bosses would set him up in a plush apartment, a penthouse just off Red Square. Then they’d supply him with the girls.’

  ‘Why would he agree to that arrangement?’

  ‘For reasons of secrecy.’

  Porter nodded at that. It was well known that the Russian security services had sources inside every major hotel in the country, tipping them off about the activity of any high-profile guests. He could see why the future president wouldn’t want to risk checking into a hotel under his own name.

  ‘What he didn’t realise,’ Cooper went on, ‘was that the bosses had rigged the entire penthouse with hidden cameras. They were secretly recording everything that went on.’

  ‘Didn’t he search the place for bugs?’

  ‘Apparently not. Otherwise the president wouldn’t have made repeat visits to the penthouse.’

  ‘Or he might have failed to pick them up,’ said Bald. ‘The Russian mob have access to all the equipment the blokes in the FSB use. They could have hidden those cameras well enough so that they wouldn’t get picked up by a detector.’

  ‘It’s possible. But either way, the crime bosses are now in possession of video footage of the most powerful man in the world shagging a nineteen-year-old prostitute.’

  Something troubled Porter. ‘You said this happened a few years ago?’

  ‘Four years, to be precise. Why?’

  ‘This was before the guy was even being talked about as president. Why would the Russian mafia go to all this trouble over a Yank businessman?’

  ‘Standard practice for these guys. They collect compromising material on almost every we
althy foreigner who has business dealings in the country. Then they store it away, in case it ever becomes useful. Or perhaps they foresaw he would go on to become the next president.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone could have predicted that twat’s rise,’ said Bald.

  Porter said, ‘What are the Russians planning to do with the tape?’

  ‘The dossier doesn’t specify. But I presume the aim is to blackmail the president. Pay up what he owes, or they’ll release the tape to the world’s media.’

  ‘The president’s in debt to the fucking mob?’

  ‘Heavily. The mafia invested in several foreign ventures over the past few years. Casinos, hotels, luxury apartments. Primarily they saw it as an opportunity to launder their dirty money by reinvesting the profits. When the projects failed to produce the expected returns, the bosses lost big.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Hard to say. But at a conservative estimate, they’re out of pocket by a hundred million dollars. Perhaps more.’

  Bald scratched his cheek. ‘So now that the bloke is sitting pretty in the White House, the bosses figure they can blackmail him into coughing up the cash?’

  Cooper nodded. ‘It wouldn’t be a straight transaction, of course. That would be impossible without drawing attention to it. But they might demand that the president invests in their projects to absorb the cost. Or pay him via one of his children’s companies.’

  ‘The president would agree to that?’

  ‘He’s fighting for his political life. His approval ratings are historically low. He’d do anything to stop that tape from coming to light.’

  Something puzzled Porter. ‘Could a sex tape bring him down, though? We’re talking about the president here, not the Pope. The bloke’s done far worse.’

  Bald said, ‘You know what some of those Yanks are like, mate. They see a flash of nipple on TV and they lose their collective shit. If it was damaging, the president would do anything to stop people finding out about it.’

  Porter shook his head. ‘If the Russian mafia have the dossier, who were the guys on the snatch squad?’

  ‘Mob foot-soldiers.’

  Cooper said, ‘Why would they want to lift Street?’