Global Strike

by Chris Ryan

  ‘To suppress the dossier. If Charles went public with his findings, the bosses would lose any leverage they have over the new president. Blackmailing the man won’t work if the rest of the world knows his dirty secrets,’ Cooper added in a condescending tone.

  ‘But why go to the trouble of lifting him at all? Why not just kill the guy instead? Problem solved.’

  ‘The mob needs to question Charles. Make sure they get hold of every copy of the report he might have made. It would be pointless to knock him on the head, only for someone to get access to the document through a misplaced USB key.’

  Porter sat back, processing the int. Thoughts buzzed around inside his head.

  This dossier is extremely hot, Tannon had said. The contents could be used to blackmail the president.

  It’d be more powerful than any conventional weapon.

  A sex tape of the president.

  A Russian mafia blackmail plot.

  One hundred million dollars.

  His eyes wandered back to the drinks Bald and Street were holding. The voice was telling him to think up an excuse. Sneak off to raid the drinks cabinet. He imagined the booze juicing his bloodstream. Another voice piped up in his head. Quieter than the first one. The voice that Porter listened to, when he wasn’t feeling stressed. It told him to fight the urge.

  Don’t give in.

  He turned back to Cooper. ‘How did the Russian mob find out about the dossier? Dom reckoned only a handful of people know about it.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to find out. My best guess is, it came from the source Charles spoke to.’

  ‘The exiled criminal? Why would he spill his guts?’

  ‘Perhaps he was bragging to someone about it. One of his old associates, maybe. The Russian criminal underworld is incestuous. Everyone knows everyone else.’

  ‘And you’re sure the dossier is accurate?’

  ‘One hundred per cent,’ Cooper responded haughtily. ‘Other people may have had their doubts about the veracity of Charles’s work over the years, but I’ve never for a moment had anything less than the greatest respect for the man. He was a first-class agent in his day. I should know. I worked alongside him in Russia.’

  Bald pulled a look of surprise. ‘You were based in Moscow as well?’

  ‘For a couple of years. Charles was the undoubted golden boy of MI6 at the time. The rest of us had our moments, but he was something else. That’s why I trust his judgement on this one. Charles knows Russia, and Russians, better than almost anyone.’

  Porter glanced at the clock on the wall to the left of the TV. 0104 hours. Less than three hours until the meeting at Vauxhall. Cooper finished his drink, set down his empty glass on the coffee table and rose from the La-Z-Boy recliner.

  ‘We should take the opportunity to get some sleep. There’s nothing else we can do until we hear back from London.’

  Bald said, ‘We’ll stag on and off through the night. Me and Porter. In case Six needs to reach us.’

  ‘I’ll take the first stag,’ Porter offered.

  Bald stared at him, one eyebrow cocked. ‘You sure? I don’t mind staying up, mate.’

  ‘Get your head down. I’ll wake you up three hours from now.’

  Bald continued to stare hard at his mucker. They both knew what Porter was planning. It was one of the oldest tricks in the Regiment book. Take the first stag on an op, while your body is still wired with adrenaline and sleep almost impossible. Use the time to relax, while the other bloke tosses and turns in his bed, trying in vain to get some shuteye.

  And I can finally help myself to a drink at the same time, thought Porter. Bald knew what he was thinking. Porter could see it on his mug. There’s fuck-all he can do to stop me.

  Bald necked the dregs of his whisky, the ice clinking at the bottom of the glass as he put it down.

  ‘Three hours, then. Not a minute longer. Give us a shout if you hear from Six before then. Tell us what the plan is.’

  Porter turned to Cooper. ‘You reckon your mates at Six will reach a decision at this meeting?’

  ‘I expect so. Retrieving Charles is a priority right now. There will be considerable pressure from above to move fast.’

  Bald said, ‘Whatever they do, they’d better make it quick. We can’t hang around here for long. Not with the FBI involved.’

  ‘How long do you reckon we’ve got?’ asked Porter. ‘Until they link us to the murders?’

  ‘They’ll be pouring every available resource into the investigation. Every field agent will want to be involved. But they’ll have a lot of ground to cover. They’ll need to rule out the rednecks from their inquiries before anything else. Sift through any traffic the NSA picks up. We might have twenty-four hours, max.’

  Porter shook the surprise from his face. ‘You think they’ll identify us that soon?’

  ‘Put it this way,’ Bald said as he looked up from his glass. ‘If we’re still sitting on our arses twelve hours from now, we’re gonna have to bug out of this place. Plan or no fucking plan.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Cooper left first. He trudged out of the living room and made his way upstairs, a weary traveller at the end of a long journey. Bald lingered for a few beats in the living room while he handed Porter the ghost phone. The voice inside Porter’s head counted down the seconds until Bald and Cooper had both disappeared into their guest rooms. Then he got to his feet and moved quietly across the foyer, making for the kitchen.

  He couldn’t shut the voice out any longer. The stress of the op had been brewing inside him and the voice was insistent now. Overwhelming. You need a drink. Porter couldn’t focus on anything else at that moment except getting some booze into his system.

  I don’t care what Jock says.

  After the day I’ve had, I bloody deserve something stronger than a Coke.

  He found Stillman in the kitchen. The housekeeper was sitting on a retro stool at the breakfast bar, nursing a drink while he watched some sort of NRA commercial on his iPad. Porter saw a flagon of Beefeater gin on the counter. The bottle was three-quarters empty. Which told Porter that he wasn’t the only pisshead at the safe house.

  Stillman looked up from the tablet.

  ‘Just having a nightcap. Join me?’

  ‘Fuck it. Why not.’

  A sly grin crept out of the corner of Stillman’s mouth. ‘What’s your poison?’

  ‘I could murder a double measure of Bell’s.’

  ‘Coming right up, lad.’

  Stillman put the iPad to sleep, slid off the stool and disappeared into the dining room. He returned a few moments later clutching a bottle of Bell’s in one hand and a short whisky glass in the other.

  Porter looked on as Stillman set the glass down on the granite counter, unscrewed the cap on the whisky bottle and poured the golden liquid into the glass, filling it to the brim.

  Jesus, thought Porter. There’s enough booze in there to knock out an elephant.

  This guy must be an even bigger alcoholic than I realised.

  ‘Drink up,’ Stillman said as he handed Porter the drink. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’

  Porter raised the glass to his lips. The logical part of his brain told him he shouldn’t be drinking. He knew nothing good ever happened when it came to the booze. He wasn’t the kind of bloke who could have a glass of pinot grigio with his evening meal. When Porter drank, he had only one aim. To blot out the demons.

  Drink, the voice told him.

  Porter took a swig of whisky.

  The booze burned the back of his throat. He felt an instant warm glow spread through his chest as the alcohol flowed through his veins, working its magic.

  Better.

  ‘Long day?’ Stillman asked.

  ‘You could say that, yeah.’

  Stillman topped up his own drink and took a hit. ‘I was in the game myself once, you know.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  Porter took a long swig of his triple measure of Bell’s, secret
ly hoping Stillman would shut up and leave him in peace.

  ‘I did twenty years in West Midlands police,’ he went on without encouragement. ‘Ten years in the firearms unit, plus a stint on secondment to Diplomatic Protection. I saw plenty of action back then.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Fella, I could tell you some stories. We dealt with all sorts. Crack dens, gang violence, organised crime. Real frontline stuff.’

  Stillman helped himself to another gulp of his drink.

  ‘The SAS might steal all the glory, but our boys are the real deal as well. Our team responded to more than a thousand incidents during my time in charge, as a matter of fact.’

  Porter almost did a spit-take on his whisky. He knew what was going on here. Stillman was bragging about his service, trying to bolster his rep. Put himself on the same level as his house guests. Porter decided to change the subject.

  ‘How long have you been in the US?’

  ‘Ten years now. Moved here after I left the job. Did my ankle falling down a flight of stairs on the job. Had to retire early. Took my pension, sold up the house in Walsall and bought this place.’

  ‘How did you end up working for Six?’

  ‘It was after my Gemma passed away. I’d been running a few surveillance courses, private investigations, that sort of thing. Someone from Vauxhall approached me through my business connections. Said they were looking for trusted UK nationals who’d be willing to let their place be used as a safe house. I signed up on the spot, before they even mentioned money.’

  ‘Don’t they pay you?’

  ‘I’m on a retainer, plus security expenses. It’s a decent whack. All the money’s routed through private accounts, off-shore, so there’s nothing to officially tie to me to Six. But I’m not doing this for the wonga.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  Stillman looked puzzled by the question. ‘Loyalty, mate. I’m serving my country. Same as you.’

  Porter smiled at that. Loyalty, he thought. There’s a word that Six doesn’t know the meaning of. He and Bald didn’t see eye-to-eye on many things, but they both shared a deep mistrust of Vauxhall. Maybe Jock is right to be getting out after this, he thought.

  Maybe I should quit too.

  ‘What about you?’ asked Stillman. ‘How long have you and your mate been involved with Six?’

  He spoke in a jovial tone of voice. Two lads, trading old war stories over a few drinks. But Porter saw a glint in the housekeeper’s eyes. Porter wondered if this was mere idle curiosity, wanting to be in with the crowd, or something more sinister. Right now, he thought, I don’t know who to trust.

  ‘I was in military intelligence,’ he replied lamely. ‘I got recruited while I was in Iraq. That’s how it happened.’

  ‘You’ve been working for them for a while, then?’

  ‘A few years, yeah.’

  ‘What sort of jobs have they got you doing?’

  ‘This and that. But it’s mostly menial work. Nothing very interesting.’

  ‘What happened to your fingers?’ Stillman nodded at the two stumps on Porter’s left hand.

  ‘Training accident,’ Porter lied.

  The stumps were a permanent reminder of the Beirut op. The one that had left three good SAS men dead, and Porter’s Regiment career in tatters. He’d been shot in the hand by one of the Lebanese gunmen holding a British national hostage. Whenever he tried to forget about the deaths of his muckers, the stumps brought the memories rushing back. Only one thing helped to shut out the nightmares . . .

  He took another long swig.

  Stillman’s gruff voice cut through the booze-fog building up inside Porter’s head. ‘Where are you based?’

  ‘England, most of the time.’

  Stillman said, ‘I’m a Croydon lad myself. Moved up to Brum in my twenties, but Croydon’s home for me. I miss it sometimes. Whereabouts are you from?’

  ‘Hereford,’ said Porter, sticking to the cover story they’d been given by Moorcroft.

  ‘Fuck me, I’ve got a mate in Hereford. He lives on that road where the football stadium is. What’s the name of that street again?’

  ‘Edgar Street.’

  ‘That’s the one. What’s the supermarket next to the stadium again?’

  The guy is trying to catch me out, thought Porter. Poking holes in my story. He wondered again if Stillman was working to a secret agenda. Or perhaps he was simply another old copper who couldn’t shake the habit. Porter set down his drink and shot a cold, hard look at the housekeeper.

  ‘Look here, pal. Do us a favour and lay off the bullshit psychology. It won’t work with us, alright? Have a drink if you want, but leave your profession behind.’

  Stillman raised his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. An old habit of mine from my police days.’

  ‘That’s fine. Just keep the conversation neutral from now on. You know what I mean.’

  Stillman nodded. In the bright lights of the kitchen Porter could see that his eyes were glassy and heavily-lidded. He looked drunk, and tired.

  ‘You can call it a night, if you want,’ Porter said, secretly hoping he would piss off. ‘I’ll be keeping watch.’

  ‘What for? No one knows about this place except me, my handler at Vauxhall and the local postman.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘This place is safe as it gets,’ Stillman insisted. ‘We’re miles from anywhere. That’s one of the reasons Six cut me the deal. They wanted somewhere off the grid. Trust me, we won’t be getting any visitors.’

  The conversation petered out. They drank in silence for a while. Stillman polished off the rest of his G and &T in one long gulp and rose clumsily to his feet.

  ‘I’m turning in, mate. What time are you expecting to hear from Six tomorrow?’

  ‘Some time after four o’clock. We’ll try to be quiet.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be up long before then, I’m sure.’

  He shuffled out of the kitchen, crossing the foyer to the ground-floor master bedroom. Porter watched him go. He knocked back the rest of his drink, grabbed the bottle of Bell’s and retreated to the living room. The voice at the base of his skull told him that he shouldn’t drink any more, but Porter wasn’t in the mood to listen.

  Tomorrow I might be arrested for the murder of an FBI agent.

  Might as well enjoy a drink tonight.

  He sank into the sofa and poured more whisky down his throat. Placating that old voice inside his head. On the coffee table, amid the empty glasses, he noticed a coaster from the last presidential election. A laminated graphic of the new president beamed at Porter from the coaster, grinning while he gave his trademark thumbs-up.

  Porter felt a leaden, dense fog settle behind his eyes. He suddenly felt very tired. His eyelids were heavy, as if someone had sewn a couple of hockey pucks into them. He was dimly aware of the time on the wall clock.

  0126 hours.

  Two-and-a-half hours until the meeting in London.

  Nothing to do now but wait.

  And pray that Six can get us out of here alive.

  He pressed the whisky bottle to his lips and took another long gulp. Thirty minutes later, the darkness closed around him.

  He woke to a vicious pounding in his head and a sharp trilling noise in the side pocket of his cargos.

  The sound jolted him out of his sleep. He sat upright on the sofa, the fog inside his head slowly clearing. His mouth was dry. There was a distinct pain behind his eyes, as if someone was stabbing at the backs of his pupils with an ice pick. His eyes focused on the empty bottle of Bell’s on the coffee table. The TV was still turned on. Ken and Barbie had been replaced by an ad for some sort of weight-loss supplement.

  Porter glanced at his watch.

  0511 hours.

  Shit.

  The trilling repeated. Porter dimly remembered the encrypted BlackBerry. The ghost phone. He reached down to his side pocket, pulled out the phone. Squinted at the dis
play while he tried to ignore the savage thumping inside his skull. The screen displayed an unknown number, prefixed by the international dialling code for the UK.

  He killed the sound on the TV.

  Hit the Call button.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Moorcroft’s voice came down the line loud and angry, like a hiss of steam.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been, man? I’ve been trying to reach you for the past twenty minutes.’

  ‘I was in the shower. Didn’t hear the phone ringing.’

  ‘I told you to be ready to pick up the phone at all times. Christ, can’t you do anything right?’

  The hangover pounded relentlessly between Porter’s temples. A wave of nausea surged in his guts and tickled the back of his throat. He fought a sudden urge to hurl the ghost phone across the room. ‘Did you and Dom have your meeting?’

  ‘It finished half an hour ago.’ Moorcroft exhaled. The anger in his voice dialled down to a mild annoyance. ‘We’ve reached a decision. I’ve been trying you every minute since.’

  ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘We’re in agreement that the only realistic option is a ground exfiltration to Canada. Given your location and the critical nature of your situation, your best hope is to attempt a crossing at Buffalo.’

  ‘Go through a border checkpoint crawling with armed guards? That’s your bright idea?’

  Moorcroft said, ‘The crossing at Buffalo is the busiest along the Canadian border. Thousands of people cross through every day to go to work, or to visit friends or family. Which means the officials will be too busy to check your documents thoroughly.’

  ‘You’re forgetting Street is wanted by the FBI. The guards will stop us the moment they identify him.’

  ‘He’s a person of interest, not a suspect.’

  ‘That won’t make a difference. As soon as the guards run his name through the system, we’ll be taken aside. We’d never make it across to the Canadian side.’

  Moorcroft let out a deep breath. ‘Look, you’ve only got to avoid the American border guards. The Canadian side won’t be a problem. They won’t have access to the same information as their American counterparts.’

  ‘It’s not gonna be easy.’