by Chris Ryan
Gedge's sadism - hesitated for a moment before handing over his money.
'Give it to me,' said Slater quietly, weighing the heavy table lighter in his hand. 'Or I'll break your fucking jaw too.' The man nodded.
In the end there was over 600 pounds on the table. When the weeping, bloody-nosed girl had dressed herself, Slater dispatched Don Parry to clean her up in the bathroom and called Bethany to come out from the bedroom. The third girl, eyeing Oswald with loathing, took a swig of malt whisky, gargled, and spat the result on to the carpet.
When Berendt returned with an armful of Kat's clothing, Slater allotted each girl 200, pounds a cashmere sweater, a pair of leather trousers, and a coat.
'Range Rover car keys, please,' he demanded. Terrified, Oswald produced them from a pocket.
'This isn't a good idea, Slater,' said Berendt levelly, I the first vestiges of colour returning to his sallow I cheeks. 'You'll never work in London again, I can [promise you that. And what the fuck you hope to [accomplish for these little scrubbers is totally beyond line. The clothes and the money will go straight back to |some smack-dealing nigger and that'll be the end of it.' 'You know what I'd really like, Howard?' 'I expect you're going to tell me.' 'I'd really like to know what you're going to tell
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Easing the Range Rover into third gear, Slater turned into the Edgware Road. The girls - who must have seen a thing or two in their young lives, Slater reflected - were beginning to find their voices.
'This is class fuckin' gear,' said Maxine, the oldest of the three, running her hands down the front of her new thousand-pound shearling coat. Bethany, for her part, was counting and recounting her wad of cash. Chanelle was still dabbing at her bleeding cheek.
'You're sure?' said Bethany to Slater. 'You don't even want us to gob yer off?'
'The fuckin' mouth on her,' said Maxine.
They drove on. They had been picked up, Bethany had told Slater, at King's Cross station.
'I suppose you're gonna tell us the deal's off with the money and the clothes if we don't go back to our parents and that,' said Maxine.
'There's no deal,' said Slater. 'What do you want to do?'
The girls looked at each other.
'I've got a mobile,' said Slater. 'Anyone want to ring home?'
There was a long silence.
'Give us it,' said Bethany.
'Don't be so fuckin' simple!' shouted Maxine. 'You know who's going to be waiting for you, soon as we get to King's Cross? Lennie.'
'Lennie's your pimp?' asked Slater.
'He's my boyfriend,' said Maxine.
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'Lennie needn't be a problem,' said Slater quietly. 'I could have a word with Lennie.' 'He'd fuckin' kill yer.' 'I don't think so.'
'This is bollocks,' Maxine muttered. 'Stop the car. Stop the car!'
Slater braked. They were outside Madame Tussaud's in the Marylebone Road. Maxine threw open the Range Rover door and grabbed Chanelle's coat. 'Come on, Sha, leave yer face alone and get the fuck out. He's a fuckin' nutcase, this one.'
Wordlessly, Chanelle stumbled out of the car. * 'You're a fuckin' nutcase!' Maxine screamed, i slamming the door. ' Wanker!'
Bethany watched them go, and then climbed into I the front seat next to Slater. 'Where to?' asked Slater. Til have to stop at the station.' 'Why?'
'I have to give Lennie that money. Maxie'U tell him 'we got it and if I don't hand it over he'll really hurt ier.'
Slater pulled out from the kerb. 'Like I said, I could ave a word with Lennie.' 'Please,' said Bethany, urgency contracting her
>w features. 'He's got what I need.' 'How long have you been using?' 'Please,' repeated Bethany.
The blur of the London night swung past the loked-glass windows.
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Slater parked the Range Rover on a double yellow line in front of the station. Almost immediately he saw a black man in a leather coat pushing his way towards them.
'Thank you,' whispered Bethany. Leaning towards the driver's seat she touched her thin, papery lips briefly to his, then climbed from the car.
Slater watched her go. He left the Range Rover standing there with its headlights on, and tossed the keys down the nearest storm-drain. In the distance he saw Maxine and Chanelle climb out of a black cab, laughing.
Despair, or something very like it, washed over him. This was the bottom of the fucking barrel, and no mistake. How much lower could he go than acting as minder to a criminal? It seemed that he was about to find out - Berendt would make sure that Duckworth felt the full force of his displeasure.
Even if Duckworth believed his side of the story rather than Berendt's, Slater knew that he was finished as a bodyguard. You couldn't physically attack your clients just because you disapproved of their behaviour. He'd be blacklisted - there wouldn't be a security agency in London that would take him on.
Fuck them all, thought Slater. Fuck every last fucking one of them.
Turning away from the lights of the station he stalked off in search of a pub.
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SEVEN
I'Slater woke to dusty sunshine. Blinking, he looked | around him. He was on a camp bed, in a sleeping bag. |a steel desk and filing cabinet stood against the I opposite wall. An electric clock gave the time as 10am. It was the ringing of the telephone on the desk, fSlater realised, that had woken him. Was it for him? Shrugging himself out of the sleeping bag he reached 3r it. It was Eve.
'Neil. Good morning. How's the head?' 'Not too bad,' Slater told her, 'all things considered.' 'Good. I'll call for you in an hour. We're going swn to the country to meet the boss. If you're up to reakfast I recommend the Cabin Cafe in Neave ?assage, fifty yards down the road to the left.' 'At the risk of sounding very stupid indeed,' said iter, 'where the hell am I?'
'Nine Elms Lane, SW8. If you look out of the idow you'll see the fruit and vegetable market. The jront door key's on the desk in front of you, the fctterpad code is BASRA. See you in an hour. If you to the Cabin I recommend the bubble and squeak.' The phone went dead.
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It had been a long night. After dropping the girls at King's Cross station Slater had found himself in a pub in the Caledonian Road. The pub had filled up as the night wore on, and he had found himself drawn into the beery embrace of a local women's football team. By llpm, sadly, the Barnsbury Bantams had left, and Slater's ear was being bent by a party of carp fishermen from High Wycombe. At 11.30 the landlord had locked the doors, and it was at that point
- Slater was drinking Red Stripe with whisky chasers
- that time and events started to blur. What was certain was that shortly after midnight he had rung Eve's mobile and suggested that she might care to join the party.
She'd arrived forty minutes later, by which time the landlord had thrown everyone out. She found Slater sitting on the pavement, nursing a final can of Red Stripe.
'Is this how it's going to be?' she'd asked him drily. 'You only ring me at closing time on Friday nights?' She was wearing a midnight blue evening dress, and looked considerably more glamorous than he remembered her.
'I'm sorry,' he had said, struggling to his feet. 'I didn't mean to ..."
She shook her head. 'It was an official thing. I was leaving anyway.' She beckoned him to her car, an anonymous-looking BMW. 'So, what did you have in mind?'
He looked down at his crumpled trousers and
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|scuffed Ferragamo loafers, realised just how dishevelled jhe looked. 'Can I, um, tempt you to a drink of jtiomething?'
'I could go for a coffee. I'm driving tomorrow I'jnorning.'
They ended up at the Bar Italia in Soho. A boxing Ijnatch played on the TV screen. They ordered large ijespressos.
'So, is this just a social call, Neil?' Eve asked him, Isettling the folds of her skirt around her stool. 'Or . . .'
'You know why I'm calli
ng you.'
She raised her eyebrows. 'Do I? Tell me.'
He told her. Told her that he couldn't kid himself ly longer, and that bodyguarding was - not to put too ine a point on it - a total load of shite. Told her that ivilian life was driving him out of his mind. Told her
it he wanted to be operational again.
'Is this the Special Brew talking?' she asked him.
'No. And it was Red Stripe, anyway. And a couple
"measures of Bell's. Let me tell you what happened i evening. Have you heard of a man named Howard
erendt?'
He told her the story. She enjoyed it, especially the |dea of Berendt looting Kat's wardrobe to dress the trio if underage prostitutes.
'But that apart,' she said soberly, 'it's all pretty epressing. You didn't honestly think you could
inge anything for them, did you?'
'I suppose not,' said Slater.
'And there isn't going to be any come-back, is
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there? You didn't damage any of the punters too seriously?'
'No. They'll have to wire Gedge's jaw and Oswald won't be sitting down for a couple of weeks but that's about the limit of it. Berendt might hire a couple of big lads to come looking for me, I suppose, but I can't say I'm exactly quaking.'
She nodded. 'And you're positive you want to join the department? You didn't seem very keen last time I met you.'
He shrugged. 'Andreas was right. I am what I am.'
She looked at him hard, and nodded. 'OK, here's what we do. You don't go home tonight; instead I take you to one of our safe houses. Tomorrow, if you're still interested, you meet Mr Ridley.'
'So where are we going, exactly, to meet this boss of yours?' he asked as they sailed down the M3 in Eve's BMW.
'Not too far,' she smiled. She was wearing jeans and a tweed jacket. A well-worn Barbour coat lay on the back seat. Slater lay back with his eyes closed and allowed the warm breeze to pour in through the sunroof.
'And Ridley isn't the boss, in fact, he's the ex-boss. He's retired from the service now. He practically invented the Cadre, though, and spent most of his career running it, so he ... he takes a continuing interest. It's just a courtesy thing, really, but we always introduce potential new people to him. He likes to run
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an eye over them.'
'How did you come to join the Cadre?' Slater asked her.
'I joined Box when I left Cambridge. Started off in Derry - source-handling with North Det.'
'Did you get down to the hangar for any of the piss ups with our lads?'
'No, I was warned off]'
Slater laughed and shook his head. It had been an
insane time: for all the talk of peace the secret war had
been waged right up to the wire, with killings and
reprisals covered up by both sides. There had also been
[some serious mistakes made; a strong mutual distrust
I had prevailed between the various security services,
land this had led to a lack of communication which on
i
|more than one occasion had proved lethal.
'Have you ever worked with a woman?' Eve asked im. It was clear to Slater that they had followed the same train of thought.
'No,' he said. 'Except on surveillance jobs. And I irorked with a couple of female bodyguards last lonth. But never operationally.'
'Would it worry you?' she asked.
'I don't see why it should,' said Slater carefully. 'But rit gets rough, to be honest, I'd be more comfortable rith a couple of experienced blokes.'
'Because the women would need "protecting"?' she ^ked with heavy sarcasm.
'No, just because I've got a theory that women tend i go for their firearms faster than men do. They know
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they're going to lose a fist-fight or a kicking contest, so they pull out a weapon instead. And the thing escalates.'
'Have you got any evidence whatsoever to back up this cute little theory?'
'None whatsoever,' admitted Slater cheerfully. 'Nor for my other theory.'
'Which is?'
'That a man will surrender to a man, when he wouldn't to a woman. A lot of guys will literally risk a bullet rather than put their hands on their heads for a woman. It's a face thing.'
'I see,' Eve said tersely.
'They're just theories,' said Slater, 'but they're very good for winding people up.'
'Oh, that's where we are, is it? The wind-up stage?'
'You drive beautifully,' said Slater. 'I always feel safer with a female spook at the wheel.'
'Was that a compliment? I can't believe it.'
'Seriously,' said Slater, 'the answer to your first question is no. I have no trouble whatsoever with the idea of working with women, any more than I have with the idea of being ordered around by someone younger than me. All I think is that people should do the things they do best. The managers should manage, the planners should plan, and the doers should do.'
'That's all very well in theory,' said Eve, reaching in her bag for her sunglasses. 'But in practice we don't always have the people for that. In this department we all do all of those things.'
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Slater nodded. 'Point taken. So how did you move lover the river from Five?'
'I was . . . sort of recruited. My cover had been Jown in Ireland, I didn't want to spend the rest of my reer doing watcher duties, so I let it be known I was ady for a change. As it happened, the Cadre had just st someone and were looking for a replacement.' 'Lost someone?' queried Slater. 'A job went wrong. My predecessor was killed.' Slater stared at her. 'Killed. How?' 'In a firefight in a Paris car-park. I shouldn't be elling you this.'
'And am I replacing someone?' 'Yes. There are always six of us on permanent jttrachment. Plus two support.'
I 'Eve pulled the BMW off the M3. Soon they were ivelling along a sun-splashed country road overhung trees. Village succeeded village - Nutley, Preston Handover, Chilton Candover -- and the landscape led to broaden, to expand around them. As they lerged from a long tunnel of beeches and oaks Eve I off the road on to a narrow track marked Dunns >rd Only. To either side fields of young corn stched to the horizon. Dunns Ford proved to be a age of no more than two or three dozen houses - all rthem old, all of them graceful, several of them large, longside the road the river Itchen wound its way rer shining gravel and emerald-green weed. The BMW drew to a halt. 'What do you think?' Eve asked Slater.
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Slater shook his head. 'It's like a private world. What would one of these houses cost?'
'Oh, a million or so at least. More with land. More still with a stretch of river. Many, many years bodyguarding, I'm afraid.'
Slater nodded and looked down at his shoes. He would very much have liked the chance to change. There had been a washing and shaving kit in the safe house, but he still felt stale. This Italian gear might have looked cutting-edge in the West End, but in rural Hampshire it just looked flashy and inappropriate.
'Thanks,' he smiled sourly. 'I needed reminding of my lowly status. So, your Mr Ridley is a multimillionaire?'
'No, he's a former civil servant who lives on his pension. He's lived here for ages - long before prices went mad. Are you ready?'
'As I'll ever be,' said Slater.
River House was bounded by high stone walls and set back some distance from the road. Eve rounded a small circular lawn, brought the BMW to rest in front of a pillared entrance, and pressed the brass bell.
The door was answered by a smiling, pink-cheeked figure with a scrubby white moustache and a keen gaze. He was wearing shapeless corduroys and a frayed country shirt, and Slater guessed him to be in his sixties or seventies. The two men shook hands.
'Mr Slater -- Neil -- it's very good to see you. Come on in, hope you're hungry, bathroom on the right if you
want a wash. Eve, my dear, what a pleasure.'
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He beckoned Slater into a stone-flagged hall. The place was comfortable rather than grand, and not especially tidy. Bookcases lined the walls, and where there were not books there were photographs: children on horseback, pre-war school cricket teams, officers in uniform, African servants, Scottish rivers and long-demolished houses. There were also mounted antlers and fox-masks, and from its case above the fireplace a vast and snaggle-toothed pike cast a glassy eye on proceedings.
Slater gave himself the once-over in the bathroom mirror, rejoined Eve and Ridley, and accepted a beer. A woman - a housekeeper rather than a wife, Slater guessed -- was bringing food to the table.
'Do you fish, Neil?' Ridley asked.
'I did as a boy,' Slater admitted. 'Not. . . not the sort of fishing you do down here, though.'
It had been poaching, mostly, and eventually he'd j been caught by the gamekeeper, a man with a ', reputation for punching you in the face first and asking I-questions afterwards. Until he went to Iraq Slater had i never been as scared as he'd been when he felt his
n
| collar grabbed that night. His heart still turned over I when he thought about it.
'What I thought we might do', said Ridley, 'is have bite of lunch, and then potter out and spend a couple jf hours on the river. OK by everyone?'
It was. Lunch was steak and kidney pie and a bottle of claret, followed by summer pudding. Slater had been ight, the woman was a housekeeper. Ridley lived alone.
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Department business was not discussed or even mentioned during the meal. Instead the conversation embraced - among other topics - the English countryside, soldiering, books, marriage, whisky and Far Eastern travel. Slater was fully aware that he was being interrogated, and that his answers were revealing more and more about his private loyalties and his secret and inner self, but the whole thing was so skilfully and sympathetically done that he offered himself up without resistance. Aware that Eve was watching him
- unlike Ridley, he noticed, she had not yet learnt how to observe people without their being aware of it
- he made a point of limiting himself to a single glass of wine, and of not quite finishing it.
When coffee was finished, Ridley led them through to his rod room. This was a pleasantly chaotic area with nineteenth-century prints on the wall, elderly Barbour jackets hanging on pegs, and waders and gumboots on the floor. And fishing kit. Reels and flyboxes cluttered a Victorian chest of drawers, nets hung from hooks, and dissassembled and partially assembled rods stood in every corner.