by James Phelan
“This is us,” McCorkell said from the back seat.
Somerville took the exit to the old RAF base, drove up to the guardhouse and stopped. The two men in the back got out.
“Keep in touch,” McCorkell said as he departed, Hutchinson close behind him.
Somerville nodded. Walker remained silent.
She drove back to town, tapping the sat-nav to take them to the tavern on the B-road.
•
The Boar and Thistle was some twenty minutes’ drive west of Hereford.
There were four cars in the gravel car park: two rentals and a couple of locals.
Walker stood by their parked car and looked around. Twelve houses in view, all well-kept stone cottages. Dark stone, white-trimmed windows. Gardens set up with precision and allowed to overgrow just so. The road through was two-lane blacktop; cars, trucks and vans passed at an average rate of one every fifteen seconds or so. It was just after midday. The sky was darkening. A typical Midlands affair, the lot of it.
“You coming?” Somerville asked.
“That’s what she said,” Walker replied, walking toward the FBI agent who stood waiting by the front door. Trading to thirsty travelers since 1514 was stenciled inside the entrance. Eve had a hand on her hip, her jacket open, revealing where her side-arm would have been back in the US. Her bobbed blonde hair was tucked behind her ear against the wind. She dressed well, for a Fed.
Somerville said, “What’s what she said?”
“Joke.”
“Oh. I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”
“I don’t,” Walker said, opening the door.
2
McCorkell looked across the desk at the SAS Squadron Commander, a Brigadier Smith.
“UN?” the Brigadier said, looking at McCorkell’s card. “Are you guys still around?”
“Our pay checks say so,” Hutchinson replied. He and McCorkell were seated across the 1980s-era laminate desk.
“We need your help on finding this guy,” McCorkell said. They would have preferred to meet with the man at the top, a Major-General in charge of the regiment, but he was away. Never mess with the man in the middle, was one of McCorkell’s mottos, and it had served him well in cutting through bureaucracy. He suspected that they would not get far here.
“And which guy would that be?”
“David Walker,” Hutchinson said, fumbling with his iPad with one hand as he showed the Brigadier the recent picture of David Walker. “We checked records. You were here when he was.”
“Yes, I remember him. Walker. Yank. Intel expert, anti-terror specialist. Academic and policy man from DC.”
“That’s right,” Hutchinson said. “When did you last see him?”
“And where?” McCorkell said.
“Years ago. Here, on base.”
“What can you remember?” Hutchinson asked.
“Well, let’s see. I was a lieutenant then, just over from the paras. He spoke to us during the first Gulf War, the week before we deployed, about what to expect to extract from prisoners—should we take any.”
“Right,” Hutchinson said. “And you’re sure you haven’t seen him since?”
“Yes.” He passed back the iPad. “Why the interest?”
“He’s dead and buried back home, full honors and mourning,” McCorkell said. “But he’s been seen around here over the past few months.”
“Oh?” The Brigadier leaned back. “You’re sure?”
“Certain.” Hutchinson tapped on the iPad screen and brought up an image of the Boar and Thistle, which showed the front of the building, and a couple of guys in the background, and passed it back.
The photo stirred something in the Brigadier. He stared at his desk, then said, “Come with me. There’s something I’d like to show you.”
•
Walker took in his surroundings within seconds.
The publican was a no-nonsense man who had served in the military. The publican saw Walker too, and probably figured the same.
Three groups of people sat eating at tables. Two were clearly tourists from the rental cars, and the others were locals.
Five people sat on stools at the bar, drinking. Three were inconsequential. Two were of interest. Also ex-military. Walker recognized one from the picture of his father taken here.
Walker ordered a pint of dark ale, and turned to his colleague. “Drink?”
Somerville paused a beat, then said, “Cabernet.”
“And a glass of red,” Walker said to the publican, who went about the task with a laconic proficiency, placed the drinks on the mahogany bar and said, “That all?”
“And a question,” Walker said, handing over a twenty and producing the photo of his father. “Have you seen this guy in here?”
The publican’s eyes shifted from Walker’s to the pic and lingered a bit, then he said, “Nope.”
Walker nodded.
The publican went back to his other patrons at the bar. The two ex-military types.
Walker picked up his drink, looked at Somerville and sipped.
“He’s lying,” Somerville said, watching the publican keep busy.
“Yeah . . .” Walker said, placing his half-empty pint on the bar. “That’s all right. These boys will help us.”
Somerville looked up at him.
Walker felt a tap on his shoulder. He held Somerville’s eye briefly and then turned. The two men from the bar. Each well on the other side of forty, each shorter than Walker but wiry with lean muscle. Former SAS men, or close to it. A lifetime of keeping fit the hard way, their former occupation’s hazard writ large in their bones and joints and expressions and scars.
“We heard you’re looking for someone,” the tapper said to Walker. He was the guy he recognized from the photo.
“Sure,” Walker said. He slid the photo of his father from the bar and held it next to his face. He was unsure if the familial traits would be evident to the two guys. The first man stood two meters from him, the second just a meter behind his comrade’s right shoulder, the bar to their left. Both wore khakis with flannel shirts and light jackets. Unshaven, hair a little unkempt, just as they would have looked back in their SAS regiment days.
“What’s it to you?” he said, looking at Walker.
“I need to find him.”
“Well then, you got a problem, mate,” the tapper said to Walker.
“Oh?” Walker replied.
“That wasn’t a question,” he said to Walker, and took half a pace forward. “I said, you got a problem.”
“How you figure that?” Walker replied. He relaxed his shoulders, let his arms hang loose by his sides, kept his body weight at the front of his feet.
“You’re in a tight community here, lad,” the guy behind the tapper said. He looked ten years older than Walker but showed no obvious sign of diminished skill in unarmed combat. “We look after our friends, including that guy you’re after—who, by the way, doesn’t want to be disturbed. So, best you leave then.”
“On your way, mate.”
“Yeah,” Walker said, putting his drink down, his head tilted slightly to the left. “About that . . .”
•
“Some time in the past six months we had a break-in, to our archival armory,” the Brigadier explained as they walked across a green grass field, dotted with small hillocks. “Though we didn’t know it at the time.”
“Didn’t know?” Hutchinson said.
“It gets audited just twice a year, so there’s a six-month window.”
Hutchinson asked, “When was the last audit?”
“Not four weeks ago. That’s when this was reported as missing.” They stopped at a metal door where three uniformed soldiers were busily stacking crates inside the earth-covered storage bunker. He handed an inventory to the Brigadier.
McCorkell looked over the list, and Hutchinson read over his shoulder. Twelve Browning Hi Power pistols. Four MP5Ks. Two crates of ammunition totaling a thousand 9-millimeter rounds. And a box o
f thirty way-out-of-date flash-bang grenades.
“How do flash-bangs go out of date?” McCorkell asked.
“Corrosion,” the quartermaster replied with a shrug. “It’s rubbish, though. They work just fine for at least twenty years; I’ve seen it myself. The company just wants to sell more to the MOD, and we’re not allowed to use the old ones in case one does go wrong.”
“This is enough firepower to start a war,” Hutchinson said.
“It certainly is,” the Brigadier replied. “And there was a crate of C4, too, we think.”
“You think?”
“That stuff goes boom all the time; it’s hard to keep track of exactly how much the lads use.”
“Someone broke in here?” Hutchinson said, looking around the armory. Two corporals and a sergeant looked pissed at the two American suits poking around in their den.
“Not on your life,” Smith replied. “The archival storage is in another above-ground bunker the other side of the base. Reinforced concrete with a hundred tons of earth all around, dating back to the war. One door is made of three inches of hardened steel from when battleships were a thing. A modern combination lock that’s got a whiz-bang security guarantee.”
“Inside job,” Hutchinson said.
The Brigadier nodded. “It’s happened before. Those pictures you showed me? There’s another guy in one of them. In the background. He used to work here. Real bastard, or SOB as you might call him.”
“I’ll need everything you know about him,” Hutchinson said.
“Right,” the Brigadier said.
McCorkell watched the three other soldiers keep themselves busy as their boss explained the theft, full of silent professional fury at whoever had committed the crime.
Hutchinson said, “You don’t change the locking code?”
“Not as often as we should have,” the Brigadier replied. “Remedied, by the by.”
“What’s the relevance for us?” McCorkell asked. “There’s no way our man had that combination.”
“That’s right,” the Brigadier said. “But if your man is up to no good around these parts, then he’s had a hand in this.”
“How’d you figure?” Hutchinson asked.
“Because,” the Brigadier said, “I know for a fact that the geezer who once stood in my shoes knew that man. And he’s the one in that photo of yours.”