Masters of War

by Chris Ryan

  Danny looked at the bungalow. Cream render stained by years of rain. Double glazing that had only been installed three years ago, because the council offered to pay for it. Cheaper to keep Dad in his own home than pay for sheltered accommodation. Not that Simon Black would ever accept that.

  The very sight of the place gave Danny the same claustrophobic feeling that had been his constant companion when he was growing up. All he’d ever wanted to do was get out into the countryside. Track animals. Build fires. Sleep out. His father was stubborn. He insisted that his disability wasn’t going to stop him leading a normal life. In reality Danny had learned from a very young age to always keep an eye on him in case he overstretched himself and fell out of his wheelchair, or worse. And, of course, his dad could never take him out into the fields and forests.

  That had been left to Taff.

  His dad’s oldest friend visited whenever he could. It was the reason they’d moved from Newcastle to Hereford in the first place, or so Danny had always been told. Taff hadn’t served with the Regiment for years, but his roots were here. Whenever he returned from one of his unexplained excursions abroad, this little bungalow would be his first port of call. Danny looked forward to those visits more than anything else. While Kyle skulked in the corner, Taff had filled Danny’s head with stories of far-off places: central Africa, South America, the Middle and Far East. He’d taken him out and shown him how to build shelters, how to find his way and live off the land.

  Once, they’d caught trout in the river using homemade hooks, then built a fire and cooked their catch. Another time they had stalked a deer, after going out before dawn and building a screen of fallen tree limbs from behind which to observe it. ‘Remember today,’ Taff had said as they crouched motionless behind that makeshift OP waiting for their quarry. ‘There might come times in your life when you have to hide. If you can’t hide, then run. And if you can’t run’ – he’d given Danny a piercing look – ‘then fight.’ When the deer had arrived, he had let Danny make the kill with his hunting rifle. A direct hit that Danny had put down to beginner’s luck but which Taff had read more into. ‘It’ll be the Regiment for you, kiddo,’ he’d said that day. ‘You’ve got the hunger for it.’

  And now Danny remembered what Kyle had said. ‘Sometimes he thought you were more like Taff’s son than his.’ There was truth in that, he realised. A lot of truth.

  He stepped up to the bungalow, but didn’t knock on the door. Instead he went round to the side, where a window looked into the tiny front room. Danny could see his father in his wheelchair, back to the window, in front of the TV. To his right there was a small coffee table with a mug of tea. Danny could just see the steam rising from it. The TV showed some chiselled twat with high cheekbones and a spangly suit ballroom dancing with a girl dressed up like a peacock. Same thing Kyle had been watching. But Simon Black wasn’t watching them. His head was slumped. He was clearly asleep.

  Danny stood there for five minutes. Not moving. Just watching. Then he turned away and walked back to his motorbike. He had no desire to disturb his father. He’d checked that the old boy was OK, and that was all that mattered.

  SEVEN

  At 08.45 hrs the following morning, Danny was back in London. An MoD driver had dropped him at the corner of Jermyn Street and Haymarket. He’d walked along Jermyn Street and left into St James’s Square, where he’d lingered for two minutes, taking everything in. Three attractive young women sat gossiping on the steps of the London Library, piles of books in their arms, casting occasional glances in his direction. Outside the East India Club, a man in a business suit climbed into a black cab. Danny walked anticlockwise round the square, and now he was standing outside one of the tall terraced houses on the south side, looking up at the imposing architecture of number 36. Black railings. Burgundy door with a black knocker in the shape of a lion’s head – clearly decorative because to the right of the door was a state-of-the-art video intercom. Danny’s practised eye immediately picked out a further camera, fitted to the corner of a first-floor window and angled down on to the pavement. He cheekily inclined his head at whoever was watching him on the CCTV, then approached the door. It had a burnished brass plaque on it, engraved with the words ‘International Solutions Ltd’. Beneath the company name was a logo: two hands, shaking each other in a gesture of solidarity. Danny pressed the button on the intercom. A ten-second pause, and then a female voice. ‘Good morning?’

  ‘I’m here to see Max Saunders.’

  ‘Your name, please?’

  ‘He’s expecting me.’

  Another pause, and then a low hum and the door clicked open.

  The offices of International Solutions were extremely plush. The reception room in which Danny found himself had a thick carpet and art on the walls. Along the left-hand side there was a large, comfortable sofa with curved wooden feet. As Danny closed the door behind him, a young woman in an elegant business suit walked in from another room at the far end. Her blonde hair was immaculately cut and straightened and her glasses looked like a fashion accessory rather than a necessity. She was about Danny’s age, and walked like she would be more at home on the catwalk than here. ‘Max will be with you any moment,’ she said. ‘Can I get you something? Coffee? Guatemalan or Colombian? Mineral water?’

  ‘Mug of PG?’ Danny suggested. ‘Three sugars?’

  The PA gave him a forced, thin-lipped smile. ‘I can offer you Earl Grey, Assam or Lapsang Sou—’

  ‘I’m fine, love.’ Danny pointed at the sofa. ‘Shall I wait here?’

  ‘Come on through, come on through!’ A new voice, male. Danny looked past the PA to see a man walking into the reception room.

  Max Saunders couldn’t have been taller than five foot eight, but Danny didn’t let that fool him. He was a tough, wiry little guy. Although he was probably in his late forties, he clearly still kept in shape. His greying, curly hair was slicked back with gel, and he wore little round glasses propped halfway down his nose. ‘Has Anastasia offered you coffee? We’ve got some bloody good Guatemalan stuff.’ Without waiting for a reply, he strode up to Danny and shook his hand firmly. ‘Max Saunders. You must be Black. Come on through.’

  Danny winked at the ice queen, then followed Saunders into the room beyond and up an impressive wooden staircase.

  ‘Bit uptight, young Anastasia,’ Saunders said in a conspiratorial tone of voice as they walked up to the next floor. ‘Fucking terrible secretary, but she’s got a pair of titties on her like a couple of Zeppelins. Defy gravity. They should give them the once-over at CERN, see what’s going on.’

  The thought of Saunders’ personal assistant giving this self-important little Rupert a happy ending wasn’t one Danny wanted to linger on. ‘Nice gaff,’ he said, to change the subject.

  ‘Comes a time in a man’s life,’ Saunders said, ‘when he needs more than a wet tarp and a plastic bag to shit in. I did my time in Hereford, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard,’ Danny replied. In fact, he’d heard a lot more. Saunders’ name was well known back at HQ. He’d started International Solutions fifteen years ago. Nice little business model: let the Regiment spend hundreds of thousands training up the most ruthless fighting force in the world and then, when they get too old, or too sick of risking their neck for a pittance in the bank account at the end of the month, Saunders would welcome them with open arms. Danny knew full well that half the Regiment were banking on two pensions: the one they’d get from the government, and the one they’d get from Max Saunders. Recently he’d taken things a step further. The Regiment’s L Detachment had taken to welcoming some of Saunders’ personnel on training exercises on the Brecon Beacons. It meant they were fully up to date with all the latest technology, and their skills were kept razor-sharp. They were SAS in all but name. Convenient for the British government, who could swear blind they had no troops in a particular territory, when in fact they’d just contracted the job out to Saunders. And Saunders himself was a Rupert to the tips of his toes – while
his men were on the ground, bodyguarding greedy businessmen in God knows what hellholes around the world, he was happy to stay in the comfort of his fancy London offices, growing fat off the profits.

  ‘Course, back in my day we were having a crack at the Mick,’ Saunders was saying as he showed Danny into his personal office. ‘Bloody dirty little war that. Who’s your OC?’

  ‘Major Anderson.’

  ‘Eddie?’ Saunders said with delight. ‘I knew him when he was in the Guards. Bloody good soldier. Give him my regards, won’t you?’

  Saunders’ office was more like a trophy room. The walls were panelled with oak, and his vast wooden desk was covered with trinkets: ivory statues, wooden carvings, an elaborate gold hookah. This was clearly the room of a well-travelled man, or at least of a man who wanted to give that impression. Hanging on the wall behind the desk was an enormously blown-up image of a stretch of coastline, deep sea to the left, highly forested land to the right.

  ‘Scene of one of my greatest triumphs,’ Saunders said as he noticed Danny looking at it. ‘Angola, ’98. The government – democratically elected, mind you – was having a spot of bother with rebel militia. Claimed to have political motives but the reality was that they were raping and looting – the usual. Government couldn’t cope, so they brought us in to help out.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘The rebels used to move their troops at night. Couldn’t work out how it was that we always knew where they were. In the end they put it down to witchcraft. Thought we were communing with the great Ju-Ju up the mountain. Surrendered en masse.’

  ‘And really?’

  ‘Really, I’d bought a couple of old Russian MiGs on the black market and fitted the pilots out with NV. We were just watching the silly sods from air. Easiest five mill I ever made. Do have a seat.’

  He showed Danny to an expensive-looking leather armchair, and took a seat opposite him. Between them was a scale model of a yacht, its prow white and sleek. ‘Having it built,’ Saunders said without any trace of self-consciousness. ‘Man’s got to have a hobby, eh?’ He removed his glasses, looked through them at arm’s length, then replaced them. ‘So. Syria.’

  ‘Syria,’ Danny repeated.

  ‘Absolute bloody shit sandwich,’ Saunders said. ‘We can always trust the ragheads to screw things up for themselves, eh?’

  Danny didn’t offer an opinion.

  ‘How are you inserting. Air?’

  Saunders dropped the question in with a forced nonchalance. When Danny didn’t reply, he seemed far from embarrassed. On the contrary, he looked rather pleased, almost as if Danny had passed some kind of test. ‘You’ll have sat phones with you, I assume?’

  Danny nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Saunders stood up and walked over to his desk. From a drawer he took a sheet of A4 letterhead, which he handed to Danny. At the top it said ‘International Solutions’, below which was the same motif of shaking hands Danny had noticed on the front door. At the bottom, in much smaller writing, was a list of five names: the International Solutions board. Danny picked out Saunders’ name, and two others he recognised: Meryl Jackson and Bob Goodenough. One was a Labour MP, the other a Tory. Danny realised at once that, with board members sitting on both sides of the political divide, Saunders had a conduit to most of the decision-making going on in Whitehall. Useful, when you earn your money out of international conflict.

  The rest of the sheet was empty apart from a twelve-digit telephone number. ‘Call that number when you get to Homs,’ said Saunders. ‘My men will arrange an RV.’

  ‘I’ll need their names,’ Danny said. ‘And I’ll decide the RV location.’

  ‘Interesting idea,’ Saunders murmured. ‘But on balance I think not.’ Danny was about to retort when Saunders held up one finger to stop him. When he spoke again, there was a little more gravitas to his voice, as though he had slipped back into his former role as a Regimental Rupert. ‘Don’t underestimate the state on the ground there, Black. It’s every bit as volatile as Iraq was a couple of years ago. You’ve every chance of being compromised before you even reach Homs and I’ve no intention of risking my men’s lives just because you get their names and location belted out of you.’ He removed his glasses again and squinted at Danny. ‘Loose lips sink ships, I’m sure you understand,’ he added, his voice returning to its normal avuncular self.

  Danny kept quiet, but if Saunders felt at all uneasy with the sudden silence he didn’t show it. ‘A word to the wise,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bloody good team of lads out there. Can’t imagine they’ll be thrilled at the prospect of a spook turning up to mark their work, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘That’s between you and the Firm,’ Danny said.

  ‘Indeed it is. Just don’t expect them to be rolling out the red carpet is all. Anyway, Black, bloody good to meet you. We should stay in touch. I’m always on the lookout for good men, so if the joys of Hereford ever start to lose their lustre, you know where to come. Money’s not quite what it was in the glory days of Blackwater, but there’s always work. Governments both side of the pond can’t operate in the Middle East without us. They make cuts to the armed forces then find themselves freelancing the work out at twice the price. Can’t see the sense in it myself, but I’m not complaining. And there’s always the chance to earn a little extra while you’re out there.’

  ‘What do you mean, extra?’

  Saunders smiled, and looked at Danny as if he was trying to work out if he was joking or not. But he didn’t answer the question, and instead politely indicated the door with an outstretched palm. Danny took the hint and stood up. ‘Bloody good to meet you,’ Saunders repeated as he shook Danny’s hand firmly, though perhaps this time he sounded a little less enthusiastic. Danny didn’t return the compliment – no good lying when you don’t have to, he thought as he walked to the door.

  Downstairs, the PA was waiting for him rather primly. ‘Leaving us so soon?’ she asked, her lips pursed slightly with satisfaction.

  ‘Aye,’ Danny said. ‘Wouldn’t want to keep you from your sugar daddy.’ The young woman’s eyes narrowed at the insult. ‘I’ll let myself out, love,’ Danny added.

  Out on the street, the Land Cruiser was waiting for him. He opened the rear door of the vehicle and was about to climb inside when he looked over his shoulder up at the first-floor window. The morning sun was reflecting off the glass, but he could just see the ghost of a figure, looking down at him. Watching.

  Then Max Saunders disappeared and Danny got into the vehicle.

  ‘Brize Norton?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Brize Norton,’ Danny replied.

  Heading to Brize Norton was like heading home. Danny had learned static line and freefall here at No. 1 Parachute Training School, and he’d lost count of the times he’d boarded a Hercules or a Globemaster on his way to whichever part of the world the Regiment needed him. The airbase was as busy today as he’d ever seen it. As his driver pulled up outside the terminal building, it was immediately clear that his arrival had coincided with a major troop movement. There were at least a hundred green army lads, with full packs and military uniform, milling around outside, some having a fag, most simply getting a few good lungfuls of Oxfordshire air before a dirty old TriStar with its best years behind it transported them to Camp Bastion. Danny respected every one of them: the older lags with their slightly grizzled faces and the new recruits who walked with a swagger but couldn’t hide the anxiety in their eyes. They had reason to feel it. If Afghanistan was their destination, there wasn’t a single man who, over the next six months, wouldn’t find himself in a contact that even the most hardened Regiment soldier would go out of his way to avoid. Soldiering had changed. The days of serving your time without ever firing a weapon in anger were long gone. Danny found himself picking out faces in the crowd, wondering if he was looking at the one or two who would almost certainly not make it back to British soil.

  An anonymous white Transit pulled up behind them. Danny instantly knew that this would be the rest of
his unit. As he climbed out of the Land Cruiser, Jack Ward, Greg Murray and Spud Glover debussed. Like Danny, they all wore civvies, but while this would ordinarily make them blend into the background, at Brize Norton it made them stand out. They approached the terminal building to the stares of some of the green army lads, while the Transit slipped away to load all their gear on the SF flight that would take them to Cyprus, without having to go through the usual security checks. They might have packed their bags themselves, but they sure as hell contained some offensive weapons that would make the average airport security officer shit himself.

  The inside of the terminal building was even busier than the outside. Queues of young guys in camouflage gear snaked from the check-in desks, and the air smelled of fast food. It was noisy too, as young squaddies shouted good-natured army banter at each other and the Tannoy announced flight times and security warnings. ‘How was Saunders?’ Greg asked as they stepped inside the terminal.

  ‘Like a cat with a strawberry-flavoured arse,’ Danny replied, his attention elsewhere. The unit stopped by the main entrance and looked around.

  It was Spud Glover who saw Buckingham first. ‘What the . . . ’ he said, pointing to a figure standing thirty metres away underneath a yellow gate sign. ‘Twat looks like Michael fucking Palin.’

  Danny couldn’t help a smile. Hugo Buckingham was dressed to travel, but he looked more like he was planning a jaunt to the Tuscan hills than a covert insertion into a war zone. He wore a white-brimmed Panama hat with a black band, a lightweight linen jacket, and at his feet stood a small suitcase. He stuck out like a turd at a picnic.

  ‘Leave him to me,’ Danny said quietly. ‘Go and check in. I’ll see you at the gate.’

  As he walked up to Buckingham, Danny could see he was a bit flustered. When a voice from somewhere on the concourse shouted, ‘EasyJet don’t fly from here, mate!’, the MI6 man’s forehead creased as he pretended he hadn’t heard. He didn’t appear to notice Danny until he was standing a metre from him. A look of relief crossed his face.