by Andy Maslen
“Thank you for seeing us, Captain,” Gabriel said. “I’m Gabriel Wolfe.”
“And I’m Eli Schochat,” Eli added.
Captain Forshaw smiled again. Her hair was the colour of ripe wheat, and her eyes were a bright cornflower-blue. She looked like an advertising agency’s idea of a typical outdoorsy Scandinavian.
“Please, call me Mary. Can I get you a tea, coffee?”
“Tea, please,” Eli said. “It’s been quite a day so far.”
“For me too, please,” Gabriel said.
“Excuse me for one second,” Mary said. She picked up her phone and asked the person at the other end for three cups of tea.
When she’d finished, she replaced the phone in the cradle and turned her gaze on Eli.
“I’m all ears.”
Eli retold the story of the “mercs in the Merc” as she put it. She was economical, though not with the truth. She neither embroidered nor skimped on essential details.
“… then I hemmed him in and drove him towards Gabriel, who put a round between his shoulder blades.”
“That’s quite a story,” Mary said, when Eli finished. “Down here, excitement usually means someone’s broken their leg falling off the assault course. Either that or we get our computers upgraded.”
They agreed between them that the training exercise on Salisbury Plain could be held in three days’ time to give Eli’s ankle enough time to properly recover.
“They have an excellent physio over there,” Mary said. “Make sure you go and see him as often as you can manage.” Then she winked at Eli. “He’s very easy on the eye. Before you go, have they sorted you out with accommodation?”
Gabriel exchanged a look with Eli.
“We thought we’d find a local hotel.”
Mary smiled.
“Which is totally fine, of course. I was just going to say they have a few spare houses in the married quarters. I am sure we could sort you out with something.”
“We’re not—”
“Married? I didn’t think you were. But they all have at least two bedrooms.”
“That would be lovely,” Eli said, beaming.
The next morning, Gabriel woke to find Eli leaning on her elbow, looking down at him. Her eyes were searching something out in his, he felt.
“Morning,” he murmured.
“Good morning.”
“Everything all right?”
“Mm-hmm. I want to ask you something.”
Her voice was level, and he sensed no teasing in it.
“Go on then?”
“What are we doing here?”
“Here, where? Here in bed or here in Marlborough Lines?”
She slithered on top of him and propped herself up on his chest with her flat palms, slapping him lightly with each word.
“Here. In. Bed.”
“Well, I for one have just had a really good night’s sleep, and now I’m thinking about letting you ravish me before we go and find some breakfast.”
“Which is all very interesting,” she said, reaching down under the covers to give him an exploratory squeeze. “And maybe I will. But, seeing as you’re playing silly buggers, I’ll try again. How do you feel about me?”
“I like you. A lot. Fancy you, I mean. You’re cool.”
“Cool? What am I, a teenage gamer or something?”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” Gabriel felt the mattress beneath him turning to quicksand with every word he uttered. “You’re sexy, smart, resourceful and very, very lovely. And, Eli Schochat, I think you should be my girlfriend.”
“Oh you do, do you? And tell me, do I get a say in this?”
“What? I thought that’s what you wanted me to say.”
“Maybe you should ask a lady how she feels in return,” Eli said, with a grin that stopped Gabriel sinking further into the sand.
“OK then, my lady. Tell me, how do you feel about me?”
Eli pushed herself upright, settling her hips down over Gabriel and gently guiding him inside her.
“You’re brave. You’re gentle. And a little bit lost, I think. You’re sexy as hell, but sometimes I see you taking unnecessary risks. I want to be with you. So yes, Gabriel Wolfe.” She raised herself up a little before sinking her weight back down onto him. “I’ll be your girlfriend. And you can be my boyfriend. Now that’s settled, prepare to be ravished!”
Fix Bayonets!
Gabriel and Eli ate breakfast in the officers’ mess, to which they had been given access as visitors. Surrounded by uniformed staff officers, Gabriel felt at home, despite having left the Army six years earlier. The familiar smell of cooked breakfasts, hot toast, and steam from the commercial dishwashers beyond the gleaming stainless-steel counter brought happy memories flooding back.
They’d both consumed plates of fried eggs, tomatoes and hash browns, and, in Gabriel’s case, bacon and sausages. Still hungry, they munched their way through a few rounds of toast and washed the whole lot down with two mugs of scalding tea each.
“Strong enough to stand a spoon up in,” Eli commented with a smile.
Gabriel finished his own mug and set it down on the table.
“What time’s your physio appointment?”
“Nine.” Eli checked her watch. “Which means I should get moving. It’s eight forty now. How about you?”
“Don’s sending someone down to collect the Merc and leave us a car in exchange. But I want to see him. We need to find out who those guys were. And who sent them.”
“D’you think there’s a mole inside The Department?” Eli asked, frowning.
“God, I hope not. It’s unthinkable.”
“Well, if it’s not one of ours then it must be someone in SIS.”
Gabriel sighed.
“Maybe, maybe not. All our operations are overseen by the Privy Council. It’s possible a member or someone on their staff saw something they shouldn’t have.”
“Yeah, what exactly is the Privy Council? Don talked about it in my interview, but he was a bit vague.”
“It’s basically an interdepartmental committee. I’m not massively sure on the details. But I think there have to be at least four ministers in a meeting. I get the feeling Don still does most of his business working with MI5 and MI6.”
Eli stood up, then leaned over to kiss Gabriel on the lips.
“Let’s find the mole. And kill it,” she whispered.
As she straightened again, he noticed a table of senior officers giving her an appreciative once-over. He felt a pang of jealousy and immediately wondered what it meant.
“See you later, OK?” she said. Then she left, giving, he was sure, just that little bit of an extra swing to her rear as she hobbled past the senior officers.
After breakfast, Gabriel changed into running gear and was on his second circuit of the base when his phone rang.
“Mr Wolfe?” the base receptionist asked. She’d called his mobile phone so there was no reason to think it would be anyone else answering. Protocol. The Army. The Diplomatic Corps. They ran on it like a car runs on petrol.
“Yes.”
“There’s a gentleman here asking for you. He says he’s here to collect the Mercedes you arrived in.”
Gabriel checked his watch. It was 9.35 a.m.
“Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Gabriel jogged back to a T-junction, turned left and arrived at the car park in front of reception at 9.45 a.m.
Identification of his colleague was easy, since he was the only visitor enjoying the comforts of the reception area. Midfifties, stocky, sandy hair cut very short. A sunburnt face in which freckles were still clearly visible. He stood as Gabriel approached, hand outstretched. The man took it, and Gabriel had to exert himself returning the iron grip to avoid having his fingers broken.
“You’re Wolfe, eh? Angus Thorne. Heard you got yoursel’ in a wee spot of bother yesterday.” The man’s Glaswegian accent had been softened by travel, Gabriel guessed, but he retained the
hard edge his home city had bestowed on him.
“You could say that. Four goons ran us off the road and came after us with Sigs.”
“And where exactly are they now? Playing darts in a local hostelry, no?”
“They’re communing with nature. Permanently.”
“Aye well, circle o’ fuckin’ life, isn’t it?”
Gabriel laughed. It felt good. Being on an army base. A full-English powering his PT routine. Joking about death with a hard man from the Gorbals. For the first time since he’d resigned his commission in 2012, he felt nostalgic about life inside the wire.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you to the Merc.”
When they reached the car, which was parked near a brick wall smothered with white climbing roses, Angus strolled round it, making a visual inspection. He squatted down in front of the massive radiator grille with its dinner plate–sized three-pointed star and ran his finger along the dented plastic where the goons had rammed Gabriel and Eli off the road. Reaching the passenger side, he dropped into a press-up so low his chest was almost on the tarmac. He craned his head up to look underneath. Then he dropped fully to the ground, rolled onto his back and scooched under the car, heeling himself backwards until only his khaki-booted feet were visible. Gabriel waited, impressed with the Glaswegian’s thoroughness.
“Ah ha! Got you, you little wee bastard!” Angus’s voice carried a note of triumph.
“What is it, Angus?” Gabriel called out.
“Tracker,” Angus said as he emerged from under the car and got to his feet.
He held out his palm, on which sat a small, black, plastic box. Gabriel cupped his hands over it to block the sunlight. A red LED blinked at him from the darkness.
“Maybe the techs can do something with it,” Gabriel said.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt. Clever little fuckers can probably lead us straight to whoever sent them.”
“You don’t want it on while you’re on your way back, do you?”
“No. I better give the eggheads a call, hold on.”
Gabriel walked off a short distance while Angus called Technical Services Division. Above him, the sun shone out of a sky streaked with cirrus clouds. A commercial jetliner was leaving a crisp, white contrail that feathered at its trailing end as high-altitude winds took it. That’ll be us soon. Wonder which way Iran is from here . He inhaled deeply and caught the scent of roses mixed with hot bitumen from the carpark. The tarry smell did nothing, but the roses whisked him back to his parents’ garden in Hong Kong. He had been playing with plastic soldiers in a patch of dirt, surrounded by huge, fragrant old roses. An excited shout made him look up.
“Gable! It’s me! I love school!”
His four-year-old brother Michael had just returned home from his first day at school. His grey-and-maroon uniform, so immaculate at the breakfast table, was less so now. His shorts had a patch of mud on the left leg, his white shirt was half-untucked and one sock had fallen down around his ankle.
The two boys squatted together in the shade of a twenty-foot-tall South China Maple while Michael unfolded his day, from the “welcome circle” – “I said ‘My name is Michael and I like animals’” – to afternoon break and, finally, hometime.
As the memory faded, Gabriel’s thoughts returned again to a hot afternoon playing with Michael in the park at Victoria Harbour. Just a year later, and already Michael was so confident. Running for the ball, shouting instructions to his older brother about where to place the kick. Shouting instructions. Why was that important? Why is that important, Michael? Why? What are you trying to tell me?
Angus’s rough voice jerked Gabriel back to the present.
“Got the keys then, Boss?”
Gabriel felt a momentary stab of panic. How long have I been standing here in a trance? Clearly not long, as Angus made no reference to it. Or are you deferring to me because I’m officer-class?
“Yeah, sure.”
Gabriel pulled out the keys and blipped the fob for the doors and the tailgate, which opened with low hum. It looked like the maw of a great beast, ready and waiting to swallow him whole. Together, the two men pulled up the carpeted boot floor, lifted it out and set it down on the tarmac.
“Well, well,” Gabriel said. “Lucky they were in a hurry to come after us.”
They were looking down at two Heckler & Koch MP5Ks. Stubby sub-machineguns capable of emptying 30 rounds into someone in two seconds. And an Accuracy International AT308 sniper rifle. All black, from the stock to the muzzle brake.
“Aye, well, I’m sure you could’ve coped with those. You used a couple of do-it-yourself bayonets is what I heard.”
Gabriel laughed.
“Something like that.”
“Good for you! I was an infanteer. Second Battalion, Scots Guards. You know our job? ‘To close with and engage the enemy at close quarters with rifle, grenade and bayonet?’ Bayo-fuckin’-net, I ask you! You ever use yours, Boss?”
Gabriel shook his head.
“Never.”
“I’ll tell you a story. I was in the Falklands War. Battle of Mount Tumbledown, OK? So, we were contacted by the Argies and it all got a bit kinetic for a wee while. Bullets flying everywhere, you know. Crack-thump, crack-thump, crack-thump. We had a general-purpose machinegun putting down suppressive fire, grenades, the whole fuckin’ works. Anyway, after about ninety minutes, we were nearly there, you know? I mean, we’d beaten them back to where they were ready to surrender. But we were still taking fire. We were really low on ammunition, and our captain gave the order to fix bayonets. Fifty yards ahead of our squad’s position, we spotted a trench. My mate, Willie Andrews, just stands up and shouts, “Cover me!” like in a fuckin’ Western. Then he ran towards the trench. I followed him, giving covering fire as we ran.
“Now Willie was a tough little fucker. Christ only knows how he and me made it into a fuckin’ Guards regiment, but there ye are. Used to box back at home, and didn’t mind whether it was at a club or with his bare fists in a wee vennel between two rows of houses. Not a bad soldier, and a pretty good mechanic as well. But what he excelled at, was killing. We joined up together, but he never really wanted to, not at the start. Just two wee lads from the Gorbals looking to get out, you know? Make something of ourselves. But in battle, well, he used to get the old red mist. Like one of those Viking warriors. The ones that used to get bevvied up and then go into battle in a fuckin’ trance and slaughter as many of the enemy as they could manage. What did they call them again?”
“Berserkers.”
“Aye! Berserkers! Well, Willie was our berserker. He gets to the lip of the trench and gives them a few rounds with his rifle. And then he shouts at them, even though I’m pretty sure they’re all dead or as near as. This is what he shouts, OK? Word for fuckin’ word. ‘I am Colour Sergeant William McKenzie Andrews of the Second Battalion of the Scots Guards, and I am here to deliver the Queen’s message. And the Queen’s message is this, you fuckers!’ And then Willie jumps down into the trench and he’s just going up and down with his bayonet like a fuckin’ sewing machine. After he’s done them all, he comes to rest and he looks up at me out of the trench, and his face is spattered with blood, you know? I mean, pretty near covered. His face is like a devil. And he says to me, ‘How did I get down here?’ He’s got no idea of what’s just happened.”
Gabriel nodded his appreciation of the story. He had many similar ones of his own. They weren’t pretty. Or even always particularly heroic. Certainly not the kind of story the popular press liked to trumpet in their blaring banner headlines about “our brave boys and girls” as the current journalistic fashion had it. They were much happier with the big picture stuff: acts of bravery, daring rescues, successful raids, even troops building schools or handing out sweets to local kids. They knew the great British public would get twitchy if they knew the reality of war. That sometimes the job involved killing as many people as you could, as fast as you could, before they did the same to you. You used grenades
and bullets. When the grenades and the bullets ran out, you used bayonets. If you didn’t have a bayonet, then a tomahawk, a knife or your bare hands would have to suffice.
Angus climbed into the front seat and Gabriel took the back. Together they methodically searched the interior. Finding nothing of interest apart from the road atlas and a couple of Ordnance Survey maps, Gabriel handed Angus the keys and received a set in return. The black plastic fob bore the four linked rings of the Audi logo.
“Please tell me this is something with more poke than my Ford Mondeo.”
Angus smiled.
“I think you’ll be happy. Now, take care of yourself and that wee Israeli lassie. I’ll be on my way.”
The two men shook hands, then Angus was slamming the door, starting the engine and trundling the GLS out of the carpark and back to MOD Rothford.
Gabriel watched him go, shading his eyes against the sun. And one thought revolved in his head. Why is it so important to remember that game in the park with Michael?
He arrived back at the house at 11.00 a.m. to find Eli already there.
They sat opposite each other at the simple kitchen table, mugs of fresh-brewed coffee steaming before them.
“What are you going to do about replacing your repmobile?” Eli asked.
“I thought I’d book a few test drives. Find something fun and fast—”
“And flashy,” Eli said with a smile.
“And flashy.”
“Yeah, well hurry up. I can’t have my partner behind the wheel of a grey car for much longer.”
A thought occurred to Gabriel.
“What time’s your next physio?”
She looked at her watch.
“Twelve. Why?”
He grinned.
“Maybe I’ll follow your advice.”
Call the Cops
Detective Chief Superintendent Calpurnia “Callie” McDonald watched the monitor in the observation room as the newest member of her team, Detective Inspector Jean-André Malo interviewed a middle-aged Libyan man. The small group of experienced officers she led – The Special Investigations Unit – pursued what everyone referred to as “the really bad ’uns.” They had conducted a three-month surveillance operation on the Libyan before arresting him. He was running a human trafficking operation, bringing women into the UK from the Gulf states, selling them into slavery for rich Saudi families living in London, having them raped by male family members and then, when the children were born, delivering them into the hands of sex traffickers. Her phone rang. Frowning, she pulled it from her trouser pocket and glanced at the screen.