‘We’ll be in touch when we’re out,’ Smart said. ‘Look after yourself, Tom.’
The trio climbed into the SUV and Ellis reversed out of the driveway, Smart’s parting words weighing heavily. Is that what he was doing? Selfishly looking after his own interests?
And what of the man at the centre of all this? How would Harvey feel, knowing Gray had refused to help beyond offering advice and procuring weapons and transport?
Melissa began fidgeting in Gray’s arms as he watched the SUV disappear around the corner.
‘Bedtime for you,’ he said, planting a kiss on her cheek. He carried her upstairs and changed her, then tucked her into bed and continued reading the epic saga that was The Cat in the Hat, a tale he’d been reading to her for the last few nights. As always, Melissa started out listening intently, but her eyes soon began to lose the battle. She was asleep before he’d managed to finish two pages.
Gray put the book down next to her water bottle and swapped the table lamp for the nightlight, but instead of retreating downstairs, he sat gazing at his daughter.
She looked so at peace, completely unaware of all the anger and hatred going on in the world around her, and it was his job as her father to protect her from it. He couldn’t be so irresponsible as to go marching off to war when his real duties lay here with his little angel.
You think none of them have got bairns? You think they don’t have families?
McGregor had a valid point. Ninety-five per cent of the soldiers serving in conflict zones had someone waiting for them to come home, and many had young children expecting Daddy to return safe and sound. On the sad occasions when that didn’t happen, life went on. Sure, the families suffered intolerable grief, but it faded over time. Gray knew a few widows from his days in the regiment. Wives of brave warriors who’d lost their lives doing what they did better than anyone else. Some still attended the reunions, their now-grown children none the worse for their single-parent upbringing.
His case was different, though. If he failed to return, Melissa had no mummy to step up and shoulder the burden. His daughter would be sent to live with people she considered her grandparents, Ken and Mina Hatcher. They were actually his dead wife’s aunt and uncle, but he referred to them as grandma and grandpa for Melissa’s sake. Not only would he be denying his daughter a father; he’d also be imposing on his late wife’s relatives for the next sixteen years, at the very least. That they would take on the responsibility wasn’t in doubt, but they would be pushing seventy by the time Melissa reached the age of boyfriends and rebellion. Would they be able to cope with the pressure?
Gray ran a finger across the scar on his cheek, ironically gained after leaving the service. More than a decade in the armed forces, and the worst he’d suffered had been severe athlete’s foot while on jungle exercises in Belize. In the last five years, though, he’d been almost killed in a bomb blast, seconds from perishing in the Philippine jungle, marked for death by a Malaysian human trafficker and shot down while flying over an African war zone. It was if some higher power was telling him to quit playing Action Man and stay the hell away from trouble.
Your fighting days are over, Gray.
That was the easiest one to reconcile, which was why he’d abandoned the country of his birth in favour of retirement in a quiet community thousands of miles away.
But what if that wasn’t what the universe had planned for him?
Trouble seemed to have no problem finding him, and the next time it reared its head, Melissa would be in the firing line once again.
Perhaps she’d be better off growing up in the quaint Italian village where the Hatchers lived, enjoying an idyllic life a world away from all the pain and suffering felt elsewhere.
Melissa turned and placed her hands together on the pillow, resting her cheek on them as if praying in her sleep. The serene image distracted Gray from his thoughts, and his throat tightened as tears threatened to overwhelm him.
He leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead, then rearranged the covers before leaving her room and heading downstairs. He took a couple of Buds from the refrigerator and carried them through to the living room, where he sat in darkness and waited for clarity to strike.
Chapter 17
23 January 2016
Len Smart pulled his Ford into a bay in Heathrow’s long-term car park and the team climbed out to retrieve their luggage from the back of the car. Along with Smart and Sonny were three others, handpicked for the mission.
Mark Howard was only four months out of the regiment and, like Sonny, had been an instructor in close quarters battle, specialising in fighting in urban situations. A Yorkshireman, he stood a shade under six feet and wore his black hair in a tight crew cut.
Sean Butterworth, also known as Doc, was a tall, wiry figure who brought language and first-aid skills to the party. He would be the squad’s medic and one of two who spoke fluent Russian.
The other was Edgar Melling, who matched Sonny’s diminutive physique but lacked his joviality.
Along with his personal luggage, Smart pulled a Samsonite suitcase containing the Sentinels, automated firing systems patented by Gray and used to good effect in Malundi a year earlier. They consisted of a modified rifle breach and two-inch barrel that was fed with up to two hundred rounds of 7.62 mm ammunition. The external casing of these particular units was designed to resemble stone, ideal for deployment to places such as Afghanistan. The satellite imagery had shown plenty of rubble on the streets of Dubrany, making them the perfect choice.
While Sentinels could be left in deploy-and-forget mode – the units opened fire when proximity sensors were triggered – they could also be controlled remotely. This enabled the operator to see approaching targets and manoeuvre the barrel to pick them off. Gray’s company had tried developing an app for phones and tablets that would do a similar job, but in Wi-Fi and data blackspots the units refused to respond. They’d been able to achieve a little success using Bluetooth technology, but unless the handsets were adapted to use Class 1 radios, range bottomed out at around thirty feet.
The handsets in Smart’s luggage allowed him to control up to eight units by toggling through a visual display and pressing a virtual trigger. The time lapse between firing and the bullet leaving the barrel was negligible, meaning the operator could take part in a battle while hundreds of yards from the action.
Having these handy weapons was one thing. Getting them through airport security was something else entirely.
Although the British armed forces had yet to decide if they wanted to take delivery of the Sentinels, Minotaur Logistics had been granted a licence to use them for training and demonstration purposes, which meant they could take them overseas. Unfortunately, each trip abroad required clearance from the government in the form of a Standard Individual Export Licence, or SIEL. These took up to four weeks to process and, as Harvey barely had a day before the deadline was reached, they’d had to improvise.
Ellis had instructed MI5’s tech wizard Gerald Small to find his way into SPIRE, the government’s export licensing system, and create a new permit. A printable copy had then been emailed to Sonny, who had used a previous permit to copy over the relevant signatures. While it looked authentic, and the soft copy was correctly entered on the government database, the ruse would fall apart if anyone cared to do a little digging.
Ellis had assured them that Small had covered his tracks, but if they got caught at the border, they were on their own.
Smart had seen it as an acceptable risk. Not only did the Sentinels more than double their firepower; they would also hold up any pursuers, aiding the team’s escape.
After checking in the rest of their baggage, Smart led the squad to the security desk, where he handed over the permit with a smile. The woman behind the counter didn’t reciprocate as she picked it up and studied it closely, occasionally glancing up at Smart, who did his best to remain calm.
‘Bring it through,’ she said, and opened a door so that Smart
could wheel the luggage into a small room. He lifted the suitcase and placed it on a counter, then undid the combination locks and flipped open the lid.
‘What are these?’
Smart took one of the devices from its compartment and quickly took it apart, explaining its purpose.
The woman asked him to put it back together, then counted the contents of the suitcase and compared it with the permit.
Just stamp the bloody thing, Smart silently urged her, but instead the clerk picked up the phone and began dialling.
Betty Hemmingway wanted to ignore the bleeping phone and get to the George and Dragon, where her sister was waiting to have lunch with her. Betty was desperate to know the results of the scan, but her supervisor was hovering near the water cooler and wouldn’t take kindly to her leaving her desk five minutes early and ignoring an incoming call.
Hemmingway snatched at the handset. ‘Department of Business, Innovation and Skills,’ she said, trying to sound civil.
‘Hi, this is Anne Pickering from Heathrow,’ the caller said. ‘I’ve got a SIEL here and would just like to authenticate it.’
Great, Hemmingway thought. A ten-minute slog back and forth to the archive, meaning a short lunch break. Not what she needed when her sister was going to give her the results of the oncology test.
Sorry to hear the bad news, sis, but I have to get back to work now.
‘Okay, give me the number,’ Hemmingway said, resigned to the fact that she would be late. She picked up her pen and pulled a notepad towards her, but an idea stopped her.
Verification was normally done against hard copies to ensure that the necessary signatures were in place, but there was also a database containing records of all permits issued. She checked the clock on the wall and saw that her lunch break started in two minutes.
Hemmingway glanced over to her supervisor, who was thankfully in conversation with the office Romeo and flirting like a teenager. She opened the SPIRE screen and typed the reference number into the box before hitting the Enter key.
‘Issued to a Mr Leonard Anthony Smart of Minotaur Logistics on January sixth,’ she said, reading from the screen. ‘Eight Sentinel automated devices – whatever those are – and no ammunition.’
‘Thanks,’ Pickering said. ‘That tallies with what we have here.’
Hemmingway put down the phone and saw that she was a minute into her lunch hour. She closed down the screen and locked her computer, then grabbed her coat and bag and hurried to the exit.
The fact that the name of the authorising clerk on the permit was Betty Hemmingway simply didn’t have time to register with her.
‘Thank you, Mr Smart. If you leave this with me, I’ll make sure it’s loaded onto your flight.’
Smart left the office and joined the four other men; he was finally able to release the breath he felt he’d been holding for the last five minutes.
‘We good?’ Sonny asked, and got a nod in reply.
‘I think I need a beer, though,’ Smart said.
They wouldn’t be heading into Tagrilistan for another twenty-four hours, so it wasn’t as if they didn’t have time to sleep it off. Smart led them through customs and security, then found a bar that sold his favourite ale. He bought a round on the company credit card and settled into his chair.
‘I can’t believe Tom didn’t come,’ Sonny said, sipping his lager.
‘I know,’ Smart agreed. ‘He’s changed so much in the last couple of years. I can’t say I blame him, though. Melissa’s his world.’
‘Who’s Melissa?’ Howard asked.
‘Tom’s daughter,’ Smart told him.
The three newcomers had all met Gray during their interviews with Minotaur months earlier, though they knew nothing of his private life beyond what was available on the Internet.
‘I heard his wife died a couple of years ago,’ Doc said. ‘Must be hard bringing up a kid alone.’
‘He’s doing a great job,’ Sonny said. ‘Maybe a little overprotective, but that’s his prerogative. Still, with his mate in trouble . . .’
‘Tom’s been through his fair share,’ Smart said. ‘He deserves to call it a day.’
Melling asked when they’d receive further details about the mission.
‘Once we land in Kazakhstan we’ll be met by our pilot,’ Smart said. ‘We’ll then have eighteen hours to go over the plan and get our kit sorted.’
Smart would have preferred another couple of days going over satellite imagery before setting off, but the countdown to Harvey’s demise was ticking. He’d given the trio the basics – location, target, time frame – but the finer details would have to wait until they were on the ground.
Sonny asked the others about their backgrounds. He’d been the one to put them through their paces at the training facility as part of their interview, but that had only lasted a couple of hours and the point had been to test their skills, not delve deeply into their private lives.
Doc Butterworth, it turned out, was the only one who was married, though he admitted it had been on the rocks for a few years now. It was the typical story of soldiers everywhere: always being away from home, putting a strain on yet another military marriage.
Smart rose and got another round of drinks in, then sat back down and pulled his Kindle from his hand luggage.
‘Hey,’ Sonny said, nudging Smart’s foot with his own. ‘You’re becoming a real antisocial prick in your old age.’
‘If we make it out of this alive, you can sue me,’ Smart said, flicking the device into life. ‘But just in case we don’t, I want to finish this book. It’s an absolutely cracking read.’
‘I didn’t know Playboy made e-books.’ Sonny nudged him again.
Smart sighed. ‘I know you have trouble concentrating on anything for more than two minutes if it doesn’t centre around naked women, but some of us are a little more sophisticated.’
‘Okay, professor, so what does SpongeBob SquarePants get up to this time?’
‘It’s actually called Killing Hope, by Keith Houghton.’
‘Never heard of him,’ Sonny said.
‘That’s because you’re an uncultured yob, but give it a couple of years and even you’ll recognise the name.’
Sonny shrugged and turned back to the other men, leaving Smart to indulge his passion.
Smart wasn’t left alone for long.
A holdall was dumped on the seat next to him, startling him, and he looked up to see who the culprit was.
‘Tom!’
‘None other,’ Gray said. ‘Where’s my pint?’
‘We didn’t think you were coming, remember?’
‘What? You think I’d leave Andrew’s life in Sonny’s hands?’
‘So what made you change your mind?’ Sonny asked, ignoring the dig.
Gray asked a passing waiter for a beer and took a seat. ‘Hopefully, I’ve got another forty years left on this planet. I just couldn’t spend every day between now and then knowing that I didn’t step up when a mate needed my help. Especially one who’d already saved my life.’
‘What about Melissa?’ Smart asked. ‘Who’s looking after her?’
‘I wanted to get her to Ken and Mina in Italy, but there just wasn’t time, so I asked my next-door neighbour. Sue used to be a teacher, and as they’re both retired, they were happy to take her in for a few days.’
‘I don’t want to sound the pessimist, but what if we don’t make it back?’ Smart asked.
‘I’ve already spoken with Ellis,’ Gray said. ‘She has instructions to take Melissa to San Giovanni in Fiore, and Ryan Amos has my will. She’d be well looked after.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re here,’ Sonny said, glancing at Smart. ‘It wouldn’t be the same with Granddad in charge.’
Chapter 18
23 January 2016
Harvey heard the lock on the door being pulled back, and he forced himself further into the corner of the room, giving them as little of his body to aim at as possible.
For
the last . . . he had no idea how long it had been – they’d been coming into his cell and beating him mercilessly. Not once did they ask any questions, they just set about him with their fists and feet. The assaults lasted just a couple of minutes, then they would leave, laughing as they slammed the door and locked it once more.
Harvey got himself into a foetal position and waited for the punishment to begin, but all he heard was metal scraping on the floor, before the door banged shut again. He waited a few moments, just in case it was a ruse to get him to drop his guard. He listened for breathing, and when his ears failed to register anything, he cracked open one bruised eye and surveyed the room. His head pounded when he moved it, but eventually his gaze came across the tray of food on the floor.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He recalled having a late snack before going on the stake-out with Hamad, but how long ago was that? He’d spent at least eighteen hours at the farmhouse before he was drugged, and it took another ten to fly to Tagrilistan, plus the drive to the airport and the journey to his current location. That accounted for a day and a half, and then there was the time he’d spent in his cell.
Harvey eased himself over to the tray, his arms and legs aching from the beatings. Close to three days, he reckoned. He’d had a drink of water at the farmhouse, but nothing since. The liquid in the Styrofoam cup tasted like nectar as it slid down his throat, but there was too little of it. He used his parched tongue to extract every last drop, then turned to the rest of the fare. Two slices of hard bread sat next to a grey-brown mush that must have passed for stew to the locals. He sniffed at it, a pointless exercise as his broken nose was bunged up with blood and snot. Harvey scooped up some of the stew with a slice of bread and thrust it into his mouth.
He instantly regretted it.
As he bit down on the rock-hard bread, his broken incisor sent a lightning bolt of pain shooting through his skull. The food dropped from his mouth as he screamed, and he cursed himself for forgetting about it. It was one of two teeth that had been damaged during the assaults, the other a molar on the other side of his mouth.
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