Night Strike

by Chris Ryan

  ‘You know the drill. If it goes tits up, we’ll deny all knowledge of the operation. So will the Agency.’

  Nothing new there, thought Bald. The Firm’s SOPs were basically a roll-call of the many devious and original ways by which they planned to fuck you in the arse. Bald rubbed his eyes but the shimmering refused to go away. His iPhone trilled in his jeans pocket. He dug it out. Lena was calling. He tapped the ‘Decline’ tab. I shouldn’t be here right now, he thought. I should be in a hotel banging the finest piece of Russian arse the world has ever seen. His mind ran through all the good shit that had happened to him since Serbia. The women. The job. The fucking money. The big house in Guildford. Lena. Cave was out of his fucking mind if he thought he would want to risk going back into active service.

  He thought, too, about the migraines. It wouldn’t just be a risk doing the job. It’d be a fucking disaster. That was why he’d never considered himself for the contract to begin with. He thought about sharing his thoughts with Cave, but the MI6 man was waffling away on the Torch.

  ‘Yes . . . No . . . Yes. Of course.’

  They were fast approaching the Kent coast. The land had flattened out. Cave killed the call.

  Bald wasn’t prepared to deal with this crap any longer. He wanted out. He tapped the driver’s headrest and said, ‘Stop the car.’

  Cave snorted, half amused, half annoyed. ‘Don’t you want to hear my proposal?’

  ‘Shove it up your crack. I’ve got a good job. A good fucking life. I don’t need this shit. Get some other cunt to do it.’

  With that Bald sunk into his seat and rooted around in his jeans pocket. He pulled out a small plastic container, unscrewed the lid and popped three white tablets into his mouth.

  ‘On the happy pills now, are we, John Boy?’

  ‘These fucking headaches—’

  Cave snatched the container from Bald and read out the word ‘Sarotex’. He tossed it back into Bald’s lap. ‘For God’s sake. You’re on anti-depressants now?’

  ‘It’s for my head,’ said Bald.

  ‘That’s the stuff they prescribe for the boys coming back from Afghanistan with PTSD.’ Cave was quiet for a moment. Bald faced forward but he could feel the wanker’s eyes burning holes in him. ‘Lance-Elsing are willing to cough up $5 million for this job.’

  Bald said, ‘It’s worth a lot more to the Firm.’

  ‘You want to concentrate on getting your act together. You can’t cock this one up.’

  ‘I told you: get someone else to do it.’

  ‘There is no one else.’

  Bald soothed his forehead. He prayed for the amitriptyline to kick in super-fast. Bald was a tough guy, he had grit, had balls, but when the migraines came on he wanted nothing more than to put a bullet between his eyes.

  ‘Five million,’ repeated Cave. ‘That’ll set you up for life. You can go and live in a chalet in the Alps, drink whiskey and eat deep-fried kebabs, or whatever it is you people do.’

  Bald said nothing.

  Cave dropped his voice. His eyes were smiling. ‘But know this. You walk away and I make one phone call. That’s all it takes. One phone call and your life becomes a living nightmare.’

  Bald’s mouth was suddenly very dry.

  ‘You remember Rio, don’t you, John?’ Cave went on. ‘I’m sure the Brazilian authorities would love to talk to you about the cops you killed and the drugs you smuggled out.’

  Cave now turned to face Bald. His demeanour had changed. His voice was threatening.

  ‘If you won’t cooperate with us, I’ll put you on the next flight to Brazil. The police will have you wearing steel bracelets before you put a foot on the tarmac. They’ll try you for murder, John Boy. They’ll send you to a prison where the local gangs will ride a train up your arse so hard their dicks will be tickling the back of your throat.’

  Bile rose up to Bald’s mouth. He could taste it. It was bitter and lumpy. He swallowed it back down, breathed in air-conned air and glared at Cave. ‘I do this one job, we’re quits?’

  Cave smiled broadly at Bald. ‘Good man.’

  A road sign indicated they were five miles north of New Romney. The sky had been stripped bare of clouds. In its place was a low mist that rippled and swirled as it blew in from the sea, dousing the fields and the trees.

  ‘Almost there.’

  ‘Almost where?’ asked Bald.

  ‘Lydd Airport.’

  The mist thickened. Irrigation dykes tapered away either side of the road, hemmed in by slanting fence posts. Bald caught sight of the GPS navigator on the dash. They were racing south down Swamp Road. The navigator reckoned 1.2 miles to their destination. Swamp Road fed into Dennes Lane and the road shrunk to country lane. It was bumpy as fuck and at the speed they were travelling the car jerked and rattled, Bald’s guts doing somersaults. The words of his old mucker Dave Hands came back to him. Hands had always been a cunt but he was on the money when it came to dealing with Whitehall. However smart you are or think you are, he’d said to John, the Firm will fuck you.

  But they’ll fuck you so gently you won’t even notice it.

  Cave checked his Torch again. Without looking at Bald he said, ‘There’s a private Gulfstream jet waiting for you. It’ll fly you to Mexico City. From there you’ll have to make your own way across the border.’

  Bald asked, ‘Why Mexico?’

  ‘We can’t send you on a flight directly to the US. Even with the Agency’s help, there’s no way of sneaking you in without your name and fingerprints being recorded.’

  Bald shook his head vigorously. ‘No fucking way. I can’t just get on a flight and bug out of here. I’ve got business to take care of.’ Lena’s arse flashed into his mind.

  Cave shrugged. ‘Tough luck, John Boy. The sleeper is planning to act in three days. That gives us a window of seventy-two hours to stop him.’

  Cave paused to consult his watch. He was wearing a Cartier – eighteen carats of gold that had Bald wondering how much a prick like him banked each month.

  ‘I have meetings—’

  ‘I’m afraid you don’t,’ Cave said. ‘As of midnight you’re officially on the Missing Persons list. Suspected of falling off the Embankment Bridge along with another ex-Regiment bad-luck story, Joseph James Gardner. Media reports will suggest you were both drunk. They’ll write it up as the tragic end to two glorious military careers.’

  Bald felt his face blaze up.

  ‘Don’t bother playing innocent,’ Cave said. ‘I saw what happened on the bridge. I was watching you the whole time.’

  The heat spread down Bald’s neck. Tiny sparks singed each hair on his forearms. ‘But if you saw me, why didn’t you do anything to stop me?’

  ‘One less problem to take care of. Gardner was a bundle of trouble. You did us a favour there.’

  Sweat trickled down the nape of Bald’s neck. The Lexus was churning out frosted air that made the sweat unpleasantly cold. They were east of Lydd now. The medication was taking effect. A fog was settling behind Bald’s eyes and making him feel drowsy. The palpitation in his hands and chest was petering out. He gazed out of his window. Nearly one o’clock in the morning and the moon was on full blast, coating a single aircraft hangar and a half-dozen surrounding structures in a sticky luminescence. Lydd Airport.

  The runway was lit up. Everything else was encased in darkness. It wasn’t hard to spot the Gulfstream poised at the near end of the runway. Sea mist ghosted around the perimeter of the airport. Take a good look, said the voice in the back of Bald’s head. This might be the last time you see Britain for a while.

  The driver slowed the Lexus to a fast walk. Its headlights danced across the body of the Gulfstream.

  ‘Everything’s ready, Johnny. Are you?’

  ‘What do you fucking think?’

  A smile crawled up Cave’s right cheek. ‘Cheer up, man. You might even enjoy it.’

  The Lexus slowed to a halt at the edge of the runway fifty metres from the Gulfstream. Bald had to a
dmit, the jet looked the business.

  ‘You’re looking at a G450,’ said Cave. ‘The best long-range business jet money can buy. Too good for you.’

  The driver debussed, paraded around to Cave’s side and opened the passenger door for him. Bald was left to clamber out himself. A smell of diesel and salt infiltrated his nostrils. He allowed himself a grim thought: at least the Firm are sending you off to your death in style. Shutting out further thoughts, he checked his surroundings. There were no other cars or people in sight. And that gave Bald an idea as Cave led the way towards the Gulfstream.

  The jet filled their panorama. Bald could make out the signature oval windows and the ‘G450’ logo etched in stylish italics down the length of the tail.

  ‘Hurry it up,’ Cave said to Bald. ‘Chop, chop.’

  But Bald started pacing away from the Gulfstream.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Cave shouted after him.

  ‘I’m fucking leaving.’

  Bald quickened his stride, heading for the blackness encircling the runway. He had no idea how he’d get back to London tonight. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. All he knew was he wanted to get as far away from Cave and the Firm as fucking possible. No, he wasn’t going to blow everything he had. Not even for five million quid.

  ‘You can’t leave!’ Cave called after him.

  I just have, mate, thought Bald.

  He made it a few paces further when a cold circle against his nape made him freeze.

  An unfamiliar voice said, ‘Take one more step and I’ll kill you.’

  Bald was halfway through wondering who the fuck had shoved a gun into his neck when half a dozen figures emerged from the dark fields into the hot light of the runway. They were identically dressed in dark-grey suits, white shirts and black ties. They were identically armed too. Each guy packed a Sig Sauer P229 semi-automatic pistol.

  The Firm’s foot soldiers, realised Bald. He heard the click-clack of shoes on tarmac. The footsteps terminated immediately to his six o’clock.

  ‘You really thought it would be that easy?’ Cave sounded amused. ‘John, the fact is you will do this job. Now get on the bloody plane. We’re behind schedule.’

  Bald figured it would be pointless to try to run. The foot soldiers would mow him down before he reached safe ground. He turned around and warily followed Cave towards the Gulfstream. By the time Bald reached the top of the airstairs he was struggling for breath. He stepped through the primary entrance door and found himself in the main cabin area. A smell of fresh leather hit him, walnutty and textured. He smelled something else too, something shitty, rank. He couldn’t place it. He looked up and down the cabin. On his left was the starboard galley with a storage area stacked with cutlery and plates, a water-filter system and a coffee percolator.

  Then Bald looked to his right at the main cabin area and dry-heaved.

  nine

  0100 hours.

  The cabin had twelve seats. Or rather, it had clearly once catered for twelve passengers. Now only four seats remained. They were the four nearest to a second, aft, galley and toilet. Overhead cabin lights illustrated patches of darker carpet and screw holes in the floor where the other eight seats had been removed.

  In place of these were a bunch of things that didn’t feature in the Gulfstream corporate brochure. Strong points were secured to the cabin floor. Next to the chains there was a bundle of black hoods, and stashed in the aft galley were police batons and crocodile clips. Bald noticed a power cable snaking out of the galley.

  Cave said, ‘Excuse the mess. We’re having to loan the bird off the Agency. Cutbacks and all that.’

  ‘What’s with all this shit?’

  Clearing his throat, Cave answered, ‘The Agency use this for the odd stopover. Normally they’ll land in Tashkent or Warsaw, but the urgency of this mission required us to get the first plane they had available. They didn’t clear up after themselves.’

  ‘Extraordinary rendition,’ Bald said.

  ‘Yeah,’ grumbled Cave. ‘They call this little baby the Guantánamo Express.’

  Bald had done his fair share of interrogations, and even tortured the odd bastard. But being in that cabin still made ants crawl up his spine.

  Cave reached into his pocket and handed Bald a chunky black mobile that seemed as heavy as a brick, with a simple keypad.

  ‘This is what we call a “burner”. It’s a pay-as-you-go job. The number isn’t registered to anyone so there’s no way of linking you or anyone else to it.’ He also took out a mint tin. ‘There’s fifty SIM cards in here. After every call, be sure to replace the SIM card and crush the old one. That way no one can track the call or triangulate your position.’

  Bald fiddled with the buttons. The burner was prehistoric, but then Bald didn’t need a phone that could play Angry Birds.

  ‘I’ll take your phone, wallet and keys,’ said Cave. Then, seeing the hesitation all over Bald’s face, he quickly added, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get them back once the mission has been completed.’

  Bald emptied his pockets and Cave produced a ziplock bag and sealed the iPhone, wallet and key fob inside. It reminded Bald of being booked into a police cell.

  ‘Two more rules,’ Cave said. Bald found it hard to stay focused. The meds and the booze had left him knackered. He could barely keep his fucking eyelids popped. ‘One, we only talk in code. I presume you know the procedure from your days in the Regiment.’

  Bald nodded angrily. ‘“Birthday cake” is the example they taught us at Hereford. The CIA use it as a codeword for a terrorist bomb. Every time someone makes a phone call in America and says “birthday cake” the call is red-flagged by the National Security Agency.’

  ‘Correct,’ Cave said. ‘We know that the NSA listens in to every conversation, reads every email and text message that involves anyone in the United States communicating abroad. But there’s a way round this.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We’ll communicate on Hotmail.’

  ‘But you just said the NSA monitored emails.’

  ‘Only what’s sent through the ether. But we’re not going to send emails to each other. We’ll correspond through drafts. I’ll write an email to you and save it in the drafts folder. You’ll open it, read it and delete it, then write your reply and save it to drafts. We each check in daily. If I save a draft and then see it’s been deleted, I know you’ve read it.’

  ‘And the NSA can’t see what we’re writing?’

  ‘No. It’s 100 per cent secure.’

  Cave glanced at his watch again, signalling that their talk was over.

  ‘You’ll touch down in Mexico City just after seven in the morning. A handler will be there to meet you. Don’t look for her. She’ll find you. She’ll supply you with passports, cash and a route across the border. Once we’ve established a positive ID, you are to neutralize the sleeper. Make it look like an accident. The less suspicious the circumstances, the less chance you’ve got of getting yourself nicked.’

  Cave gave his back to Bald and retreated to the entrance of the aircraft. A stewardess emerged from some unseen crevice at the starboard galley. Her tits were bunched up in the middle of her tight blouse, the top two buttons undone. Bald imagined himself digging a hand in there and cupping one of her tits in his hand. He had been thinking about Lena and right now his balls were looking like a pair of blue bowling balls.

  ‘Looks like you got one thing right,’ Bald called out to Cave. ‘The in-flight entertainment.’

  The stewardess smiled thinly and brushed strands of glossy hair behind her ear. Bald reckoned she was Thai, and that only made him even more horny. Lately he’d developed a thing for Asian women.

  ‘Drink?’ she asked.

  ‘Rum and Coke,’ Bald said, focusing.

  She nodded and disappeared back into the galley.

  Cave stopped, turned and looked back inside the plane. ‘One more thing, John Boy. I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out.’

&nb
sp; ‘What’s that?’

  The jet engines whined, then rumbled. Cave had to shout to make himself heard above the drone. ‘The stewardess is out of bounds. She works for the Agency.’

  Then he breezed down the airstairs, his brogues clanking against the metal steps, and hurried towards the Lexus, his jacket and tie flapping wildly.

  The stewardess shut the door.

  Bald was sealed in.

  ten

  Mexico City, Mexico. 0737 hours.

  The moustached border officer caught the whiff of booze on Bald’s breath and nodded approval. Mexico, thought Bald. Probably the only country in the world apart from Scotland that approves of my drinking regime. The officer stamped Bald’s passport – it gave his name as James Grant and birthplace as Belfast – and waved him through, pointing out the duty-free shop where he could stock up on tequila. But Bald resisted the temptation to buy a bottle of José Cuervo. He was feeling pretty loaded after the flight. The look-but-don’t-touch stewardess had plied him with a stream of Heinekens and when the cans ran out he’d gone to work on the bottles. Brandy, bourbon, vodka. There wasn’t much that Bald hadn’t tipped down his gullet during the eleven-hour flight.

  He followed the sign which said ‘Llegadas’, his limited Spanish telling him this translated as ‘Arrivals’. Bald never ceased to be surprised by the airport. Most Central and South American airports tended to be ramshackle and cramped but Mexico City International was clean, spacious, modern.

  That was the first thing that Bald noticed. The second was the number of cops. Officers of the Policia Federal, the military branch of Mexican law enforcement, stood guard at every exit and patrolled the terminal in packs of three and four. They were clad in black and blue fatigues with riot helmets, elbow and knee pads, bulky utility belts and tactical vests studded with button clips. All of them were packing AR-15 carbine tactical rifles. Some had German shepherds tugging at their leashes.

  Bald shoved his way through the crowd in the Arrivals lounge and ventured outside. Morning smog. He squinted up at the sky and the heat swamped him. It was greasy and close, like he was doing push-ups in a sauna. He traipsed into the parking bay and located the taxi rank, where fleets of VW Pointers and Hyundai Atos were jostling for trade on the three-lane blacktop. Bald couldn’t see a queue, just a bunch of dumpy people, most standing a good six inches shorter than him. Then a family of four bundled past him and crammed into a taxi. A hand squeezed his bicep and a female English voice whispered into his ear, ‘Don’t look at me. Don’t say or do anything that shows you know me. Cough twice if you understand.’