by Matt Lynn
“Hey,” he snapped.
O’Connell spun around. “What?”
“How many passes did you take?”
“One, just like every other man here.”
Lorimar stepped forward. “What’s going on here?”
“He took an extra pass,” growled Alex.
O’Connell just shrugged. “Search me if you want. I don’t know what the hell’s got into Alex.”
“There’s no need for that,” said Lorimar.
The rest of the Unit was starting to crowd around.
“I said search me,” said O’Connell. “I don’t want to be under suspicion.”
He laid his pass on the desk. Then he stood up against the wall and spread his arms and legs: the classic position for a close body search.
Lorimar started to run his hands across him, dipping his hands into the pockets of his shirt and jeans. But it was a half-hearted search, noted Alex. None of them would feel good about examining another Unit Five man. It was humiliating for both of them.
“He’s clean, okay,” said the Australian, looking harshly at Alex. “We’re meant to be working as a team. So let’s just forget this ever happened. Okay, boys?”
Alex nodded reluctantly.
The men stepped onto the street. They were allowed one night of rest and relaxation. And then from tomorrow morning at dawn they would remain on high alert until the Games were over.
Alex watched as O’Connell disappeared down into London Bridge underground station.
You might have fooled the rest of them, he noted bitterly.
But you didn’t fool me.
Chapter Six
Jack took a second to examine his map, then glanced back along the street. He’d never actually tailed anyone before but he’d been drilled in the basics of close surveillance as part of his Seals training and the lessons had lodged themselves in his mind. Keep a safe distance. Carry a map and pretend to be a confused tourist – it allows you to hide your face at convenient moments when the mark might spot you. Try and anticipate the movements of the man you are following. Don’t be afraid to lose sight of him for a few moments: unless he is actively trying to shake you, he’ll turn up again soon enough. So far it seemed to be working. He’d tailed O’Connell all the way from London Bridge, up here to the Angel Islington, and so far the man didn’t appear to have any idea that anyone was on his tail.
He glanced from the map. O’Connell had started to walk through the bustling antique shops and cafes of Camden Passage, and towards Upper Street, the long thoroughfare which led up towards Highbury. His apartment was just off here, located to keep him on stand-by for an incident to the North-West of the Stadium. But O’Connell wasn’t walking straight there. Instead, he stopped at the Generation Fitness health club, slipping straight inside without looking around.
Jack waited, counting down a minute, then walked into the club. It was typical of dozens all over London. A front desk flanked by a bar selling sports drinks, and with a glass screen that looked out onto long rows of running and rowing machines and the weight lifting kit that turned pale-faced desk cowboys into fit and tanned jocks. “I’m interested in joining,” said Jack to the girl at the desk. “Can I have a look around?”
“I’ll get Douggie, the manager,” she said, with a not very sincere smile. “He does the inductions.”
While she went to look for the manager, Jack slipped inside. The men’s changing rooms were down one flight of stairs, and off to the right. Jack stepped carefully through the door. Watch yourself, he told himself. If O’Connell sees you down here, he’ll know something is up. He hung back, peering through the group of men who had just stepped out of the showers and were discussing where they should go for a drink now that their work-out was finished. Across the other side of the gym, O’Connell was shutting the door on a locker. He was still dressed in his street clothes. Turning around, he started to walk back upstairs. Quickly, Jack stepped into a shower cubicle, shutting it behind him. He waited another minute, then stepped out and walked upstairs as well. A couple of guys looked at him, surprised to see a man walk fully clothed and dry out of a shower cubicle. But none of them said anything. This was central London. No matter how strangely you behaved, no one wanted to get involved.
“Hi, I’m Douggie, the manager here,” said a fresh faced Australian with sandy blonde hair, stepping towards Jack and stretching out a hand. “Mandy here says you’re interested in joining.”
“Sorry, pal, no time,” said Jack tersely.
“We have a special Olympic offer on.”
Jack ignored him and hurried onto the street.
He looked left and right. But there was no sign of O’Connell.
“Shit,” muttered Jack.
He decided the right was the better bet, and started to run.
Chapter Seven
A curry and a six pack of beer. Alex grinned to himself. Orders were not to drink anything. There were two mobiles in his pocket, on separate networks, to ensure that he was on call should an incident kick-off and he was meant to stay sober. But he reckoned the chances of a call this evening were remote. No terror group was going to choose the night before the Opening Ceremony to let off a few fireworks. And anyway, rules were there to be broken. It was going to be his last chance to relax for two weeks. He might as well take it.
The punch came from the left. A hard, vicious blow, delivered straight to his jaw. He was passing a dark alley on the opposite side of the road from St Thomas More Square, a big modern white office building that housed the News International newspapers. Alex reeled sideways. He was a strong man and he’d taken plenty of punches in his time. But this came out of the darkness, and was delivered with a force and ferocity that suggested the man on the other end of the fist knew precisely what he was doing.
“Fuck,” muttered Alex as he struggled to maintain his balance.
The sound of breaking glass filled the night air as the beer bottles dropped to the ground. Another blow, this time delivered hard into his stomach. Alex’s vision was blurring as the pain rippling through him played havoc with his nervous system. He staggered backwards, struggling to concentrate. As he looked forward, he could see two men striding towards him. Both black. Big guys, six foot two or three, with the muscular builds that suggested they worked out regularly. The second blow had pushed him back into one of the side alleys that ran off the main street. The two men exchanged a couple of words, then descended on him in a rush of muscles and fists. Alex knew the drill well enough. Absorb the first few blows, take a few seconds to assess your opponent, then wait for a moment of vulnerability to strike back with massive force. The trouble was, that was all theory. It assumed the men you were fighting weren’t just going to beat and beat you until there was nothing left.
“Fucking leave it out,” screamed Alex.
Another blow, then another. He was lying in the gutter now, his arms raised up around his face, as the blows smashed into his ribcage and back making him squeal with pain.
“Take my wallet,” he shouted.
But the men ignored him. They weren’t muggers, that much he was already certain of. Alex was a fit looking young guy and that wasn’t the kind of victim street robbers targeted.
They’d been out here looking for him specifically.
Why, thought Alex.
What the hell do they want with me?
“Get the broken glass from the bottles,” grunted the larger of the two men. “I’ll hold the fucker down.”
Alex attempted to fight back. He lashed up with his feet, catching the small man with a glancing blow as he stepped back to retrieve some of the broken glass from the beer bottles. But the man was strong, and he clearly wasn’t reckoning on coming out of this fight without at least a couple of bruises. He ignored the kick. The larger man thumped him in the chest, temporarily winding him, then pressed him down into the street. Alex could smell the dust and the dirt close to his nostril. He arched his back and tried to push forward, but the deadweight
of the man on top of him was impossible to shift.
“Finish him.”
The smaller man had collected a broken beer bottle, and was holding it in a gloved right hand. The jagged edge of the glass was fashioned into a weapon as deadly as any knife. Alex tried to struggle, but he was getting nowhere.
“Now.”
The man started to move the glass towards his throat.
“No, please...” muttered Alex.
He been on plenty of battlefields, and cheated death several times already, but right now Alex could feel a chill in his spine. These two men were intent on killing him, and in the next few seconds would complete their task with lethal efficiency. Of all the places he expected to die, Alex wouldn’t have put a London side street high on the list. But in that moment, he relaxed, accepting his fate.
“Get it over with then, you bastards,” he muttered.
He closed his eyes. He wasn’t going to plead for his life with these scum. It wouldn’t make any difference. And if he was going to die, he’d rather it was with dignity.
A thump.
Alex looked up, startled. The small man, with the bottle in his hand, had fallen sideways.
Behind him, Jack had just delivered a blow of terrifying force to the side of the man’s head. What the hell he was doing here Alex had no idea, but with his life hanging by a slender thread, this was hardly the moment to ask questions. As the smaller man dropped the broken beer bottle, Alex instinctively reached out for it, clasping it to his right fist. The jagged glass dug into the skin of his palm, cutting it in several places, but Alex had withstood much worse in the past, and he wasn’t about to let a few cuts bother him now. With one sudden movement he thrust the glass straight upwards into the face of the larger man still squatting on his chest. The anger of the last few minutes was channelled into the attack, and the glass ground into the man’s face with the force of an RPG round. Back in the Regiment, the men had trained in building Molotov cocktails, reflected Alex in one of those moments of clarity that sometimes overtook him in the middle of scrap. Like street-fighters, they learned precisely how much damage broken glass travelling at speed can inflict on an opponent. The bottle collided with the man’s face, cutting up a series of deep cuts into his nose, cheeks and eyes. A stream of blood started to run down Alex’s forearm as he ground the glass deeper into the man’s skin, but whatever damage he was inflicting on himself was multiplied ten times for his opponent.
He rolled over, clutching his eyes, and screaming in agony.
Alex jumped to his feet.
Jack was already on top of the smaller man, pummelling a series of punches into his face and chest with fists that seemed to be made of iron.
Alex delivered a series of kicks straight into the side of the larger man’s face. Blood was streaming from his eyes, and he was whimpering in pain, but Alex kept kicking until he lost consciousness and stopped squealing. He was in no doubt that the man had meant to kill him and saw no reason why he should extend him any mercy now that the tables had turned.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, looking across at Jack.
“We’re wasting that curry,” said Jack, pointing down at the remains of the take-away.
“Not to mention the beer,” said Alex with a wry smile. “We can order home delivery.”
“You owe me a beer, I reckon.”
“Probably two, mate,” said Alex.
Within twenty minutes, the two men were back at Alex’s apartment. A shower, some antiseptic, and a fresh curry and few beers ordered in, had restored Alex back to health.
“What the hell was that all about?” said Jack, opening a can of Heineken, and spooning some rice and curry into a tin foil carton.
“Those two men were about to kill me,” answered Alex, helping himself to his own food.
“Why?”
“I think O’Connell sent them. Or whoever the hell he is working for.”
“Are you certain?”
Alex nodded. He chewed on a mouthful of the food. “We’ve been issued with access-all-areas passes for the Games. I reckon I saw O’Connell pick up an extra one. I challenged him about it, and the other boys gave him a quick search, but it’s not hard to conceal a pass on your body if you know what you are doing. I reckon he knows I suspect him of something, and he’s damned right as well. He sent those two thugs to kill me. Whoever we’re up against here, they are well-financed. Those guys were professional killers, and they don’t come cheap in London. And they are deadly. Killing a man who stands in their way means nothing to them.”
“Christ with a pass, he can get into the Games anytime he wants. And so can another TIPRA guy.”
“It was damned lucky you showed up,” said Alex.
“It wasn’t luck.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was following O’Connell home,” explained Jack. “He slipped into a gym in Islington, went down to the lockers, and then left straight away. I lost track of him after that. So I came down here to tell you about it. I was walking to your apartment when I saw the attack.” He paused, chewing on his food. “What the hell do you think he was doing in the gym?”
“It’s a drop-off.”
“A what?”
“Spies use them all the time. So do terrorists. People used to use railway lockers to swap items anonymously, but there aren’t many of those left any more. Gym lockers are just as good. Anyone can join a gym, and give a false ID. They don’t do any proper checks - why should they, it’s just a gym. You can get a private locker, and two keys. They you can use it as a drop-off. You place an item in there, and if a second terrorist has a key he can collect it from there any time without anyone suspecting a thing.”
“Such as a spare pass,” said Jack.
Alex nodded. His right hand still hurt even though he had wrapped a bandage around it.
“There’s an attack coming, I’m certain of it,” he said. “Perhaps as early as tomorrow. And O’Connell is right in the thick of it.”
“Maybe we should warn Greenway.”
Alex shook his head. “I already tried that,” he answered crisply. “She’s not interested. It’s up to us to prevent it.”
Chapter Eight
Jack had never thought of himself as natural detective. Didn’t have the patience for the work. All that sitting around, watching and waiting got on his nerves. He was a restless man, who liked to be in the thick of the action, not sitting on the sidelines simply observing other people.
But today he reckoned he didn’t have a choice.
Watching was the only thing he could do.
He’d joined the Generation Fitness club this morning. Douggie, the manager, had offered him a full tour, and a health check, but Jack insisted he wasn’t interested. He handed over his credit card and said he’d pay in advance, but it turned out the first month was free anyway, so this wasn’t even going to cost him anything, The forms signed, he slipped downstairs and checked lockers. It was just after nine in the morning, and the place was almost empty. Jack lingered over changing, and took a leisurely shower, all the time keeping a close eye on the lockers. But there was a limit to how long you could spend in the changing room without arousing suspicion, so after forty minutes, he slipped into the gym, spent fifteen minutes doing weights, then came back for another shower. He completed the same routine five times, and by then it was lunchtime and Jack was starting to wonder if he was on the wrong track. Maybe this wasn’t a drop-off. Maybe O’Connell was communicating with the rest of his group some other way.
He grabbed himself a sandwich and a coffee and sat in the cafe next to the foyer. The place got busier at lunchtime as the office workers dropped in for a work-out. Jack kept an eye out for anyone suspicious, and regularly nipped back into the changing rooms to monitor the lockers. But it was impossible to spend all day in there, and he soon went back to some gentle weight training.
It was three before he got a breakthrough.
He had just come out of the weights zone ba
ck to the changing room when he saw a man emerge from the lockers. He looked closely. One-hundred-and-fifty-three. The same locker O’Connell had left something in yesterday.
An exchange, decided Jack.
Alex had been absolutely right. This was their way of swapping items without ever even meeting.
But what?
The man was short, but looked strong and determined, with closely cropped light brown hair and wearing jeans and a polo shirt. Not the kind of man who would ever stand out in a crowd. Jack avoided his eyes and changed quickly into his normal clothes. By the time he got up to street level, the man was already thirty yards ahead of him, walking swiftly through the busy streets towards the Angel Islington tube station. Jack quickened his pace to a slow jog, closing fast on his target.
Whatever he’d picked up from that locker, he had to get it from him.
A blow.
Jack smashed a fist straight into the back of the man’s neck. It was a blow that would bring most men crashing to the ground, and leave many of them unconscious, but this man was strong enough to absorb the pain. He doubled up in agony, then looked around, his eyes fired with anger. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Normally, Jack wouldn’t attack a man in broad daylight, in the middle of a busy street. It was asking for trouble. He’d wait and watch and make his move when the target was walking down a quiet side street. But there was no choice today. The man was a couple of hundred yards from the tube, and the road remained busy between here and there. If he didn’t take him down here, the tube would deliver him straight to the Olympic Stadium without Jack having another chance to take him down.
“I said, what the fuck are you doing?” yelled the man.
His face was red with anger. There was a small black rucksack on his back where he’d stashed whatever it was he had retrieved from the locker. Jack lashed a fist towards him, but the man was prepared for the attack now, and swiftly parried it with his forearm, deflecting it sideways. Jack hadn’t been expecting that. He’d reckoned that the first blow would be enough to bring him down, and allow him to steal the rucksack and make a run for it before anyone realised what was happening. But it was clear now that he’d miscalculated. He was in a street fight, and people were already starting to crowd around. Get the bag, he told himself. The man doesn’t matter so much.