by Chris Ryan
Matt sat back in his chair. ‘Why are we getting pictures?’ he said. ‘If we know it’s WMD, why can’t we just blow the place? It would be a lot easier.’
‘Because that’s the mission,’ growled Sutton. ‘The point of this Regiment is that the mission is meant to make sense,’ said Matt. ‘We’re special forces, not robots.’
‘We need the pictures because we’re in the bloody spin business now,’ said Sutton. ‘We all are. Get used to it.’
TEN
The office was in one of the tangle of side streets that ran behind St Pancras Station up towards Camden. It was on the first floor: there was a bookmaker below, and a legal aid solicitor above. Perfect, thought Nick. Somewhere to waste your money after you had made it. And a guy to help you out with whatever trouble you got into after blowing your wad. The army guys who come here looking for work will have everything they need.
He knocked twice on the door. BTM Security was one of hundreds of little outfits that made up the circuit – the network of former Regiment men who rented out their lives by the hour or the day. The name came from the initials of its three founders: Barry Teal, Tim Ruff and Mark Seal. Seal had long since retired to the Costa del Sol – according to the gossip he’d helped out some gangsters with a job, and was putting his feet up on the rewards. Tim, who Nick had served with in the Regiment, had never taken to desk work, spending most of his time out in the field. So it was Barry, the smartest of the three of them, who actually ran the business. Nick had done a couple of jobs for him after he gave up the ski school, but BTM specialised in the sharp end of the trade – kidnappings, insurgencies and counterterrorism – and Nick soon found he wasn’t cut out for that any more. He preferred quieter protection work on the rigs. Still, they’d always got along fine. It wasn’t the best outfit in the business, Nick thought, but it was the best connected. If anything was going on, Barry would be sure to know about it.
‘You keeping well?’ said Teal, stepping forward to shake his hand. ‘How are the rigs?’
Nick nodded. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘The food is pretty miserable, but the pay is OK.’
‘And nothing ever happens, does it?’ said Teal. ‘The Algerians always think that someone is going to have a pop at their oil installations but nobody ever does. I don’t think any of those al-Qaeda nutters or the rest of the ragheads even know where the bloody place is.’
‘Quiet, and that’s the way we like it,’ said Nick.
He had travelled down to London that morning on the early-morning train. From Paddington, he’d taken the tube to King’s Cross St Pancras. After spending the night in the cottage, he felt certain that it wasn’t being watched any more, but he couldn’t be certain: when a professional was tracking you, they did their best to make sure the target was not aware of them. He’d searched the field at dawn, but found nothing. As he drove towards Hereford to pick up the train, he’d seen nobody on the road. Even so, in London he switched tube trains four times, tracking back on himself, to see if there was anyone on his trail.
But he’d seen nothing.
That doesn’t mean anything, he reminded himself. Just because you couldn’t see them, it doesn’t mean they weren’t there.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ said Nick. ‘A bloke who might be on the circuit.’
His reasoning was simple enough. He had the guy’s name, Keith Merton, but he had no idea who he was, or who he might be working for. Chances were he was a circuit guy, however. He had the bearing, manner and discipline of a solider: he knew when to fight, and when to run, the first distinction they taught you on any kind of military training. If he had been hired out of the army, then someone in the network of private contactors would know who he was. And who he was working for.
‘His name’s Keith Merton,’ said Nick. ‘Irish guy. Big.’
Teal looked at him closely. There was a mass of papers on his desk, left in random piles. Next to it was a pair of coffee cups and a half-eaten bacon sandwich. How the guy had survived military cleanliness and order, Nick couldn’t imagine.
‘It’s not a grudge, is it, Nick?’ said Teal.
Nick knew at once what he was driving at. The circuit was a small and often vicious world. The men on it were constantly clashing with one another. The missions were often dangerous, and usually badly led. There were plenty of incidents of guys coming back with scores to settle with the men they’d been fighting with just a few weeks earlier: those debts were invariably settled with violence.
‘Family business,’ said Nick flatly. ‘I’ve nothing against the guy, I just want to get hold of him.’ He looked straight at Teal. Whether he believed him or not he neither knew nor cared. Just give me the lead …
Teal was tapping the keyboard of the computer on his desk. ‘There’s a couple of Keith Mertons on the list,’ he said. ‘How old is this bloke?’
‘Maybe forty,’ said Nick. ‘Could be a bit younger.’
Teal nodded. ‘He’s done work for an outfit called Energy Protection down in Chatham,’ he said.
Nick rested his arms on the desk. He could feel the sweat on his palms. ‘That rings a bell,’ he said.
‘It should, with all the time you spend on oil rigs,’ said Teal. ‘Not a bad little outfit, but very rough. They specialise in working for the big oil companies. All the nasty little jobs that have to get done but you wouldn’t want put in the annual report.’
‘Protecting rigs, that kind of thing?’
Teal shook his head. ‘More upmarket than that. Toppling regimes in Africa, rescuing hostages, and a bit of industrial espionage as well from what I hear. Small scale and very expensive.’
‘Who runs it?’
‘Bloke called Danny Stonehill.’
‘Regiment?’
Teal shook his head again. ‘Irish Guards, a colonel. There was some kind of scandal, and he bailed out about five years ago and set up this business. Cruel bastard by reputation.’
‘Thanks, I owe you one,’ said Nick as he stood up and headed for the door.
Teal laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll collect,’ he said. ‘I always do.’
The building was smarter than Nick had expected. Most of the security firms he’d dealt with over the years spent about as much on their offices as they did on their mother-in-laws’ Christmas presents. The guys who organised his work on the Algerian rigs had a couple of rooms above a kebab shop in Kilburn. ‘Good to have your own canteen,’ Dave who ran the accounts would always say on the rare occasions Nick went into the place.
Energy Protection was different. It was sited above a smart-looking dental surgery on the London Road in Chatham. The nameplate was picked out in brass, and looked as if it was polished once a week. Nick rang the bell. ‘I’m here to see Danny Stonehill,’ he said, and the buzzer was pressed.
There was just one guy inside when Nick pushed open the door that led into the office. He was wearing brown cords and a yellow and brown checked shirt, open at the neck. His hair was sandy blond, with flecks of grey around the edges, but he looked in good shape. ‘Can I help you?’ he said.
‘Are you Danny Stonehill?’
The man nodded.
Nick paused. He’d thought about how he would question Stonehill. All the private firms on the circuit were fiercely protective of their clients. There weren’t many rules in the industry, but the one everyone stuck to was this: Don’t stitch up the guys who are paying the bills. If Merton was working for Energy Protection, then Stonehill wouldn’t want to tell Nick about it. At least not willingly.
‘I’m looking for a man called Keith Merton. I heard he works for you sometimes.’
Stonehill shrugged, glancing at the door. Nick could see straight away what he was thinking. It was written into every muscle on his face. How little can I get away with telling this guy?
‘And you are … ?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Nick. ‘Just some guy who wants to find Merton.’
No good telling him who I am, thought Nick. If he set Me
rton on to me, then as soon as he knows who I am, he’s going to clam up completely.
‘Have I seen you before somewhere?’ said Stonehill. He took a step forward, examining Nick the way he probably used to examine men on the parade ground. ‘I was in the army,’ said Nick. ‘From ’75 to ’95. Same years you served.’
‘Which regiment?’
‘There only is one.’
Stonehill nodded. An army man himself, thought Nick, he would know precisely how tough you had to be to get into the SAS, and how hard it was to survive there. He wouldn’t underestimate his strength, or challenge it lightly.
‘And who says I know who Merton is?’
Nick glanced around the office. The room they were standing in was a reception area, but it didn’t look like it was ever staffed. There was a desk and a chair, but no computer or phone. Behind it were two offices, one with the door opened. Nick stepped towards it.
‘Where the hell are you going?’ snapped Stonehill.
‘We need to talk in private.’
It was Stonehill’s office, Nick could tell that instantly. It had ‘the boss’ stamped all over it. There was an antique desk, with an Apple laptop resting on it. Next to that a landline phone, and two mobiles. Clearly a man who likes to have lots of different conversations at once, thought Nick. On the floor was a Persian rug, and there was a fine piece of African wood-carving in one corner. Up on the walls were two paintings, both of hunts, and one photograph: a stylish brunette, and two boys, aged around two and three. The family, thought Nick. Every man’s weak point.
Nick stood with his back to the desk. ‘I’ll give you a chance to deal with me straight before this turns nasty,’ he said, his tone hard and edgy. ‘Two guys have been following me and my phone has been tapped. I got into a scrap with them a couple of nights ago. I don’t know why they were following me, but my daughter has disappeared, and I’ve got a pretty good idea they’ve got something to do with it.’ He looked straight at Stonehill, clenching his fists as he did so. ‘One of them was Keith Merton. The guy works for you. Now, save yourself a lot of trouble and tell me who hired Merton, and what the hell he was doing following me.’
‘Get the fuck out of my office,’ spat Stonehill.
He was leaning against the edge of the door frame. Nick edged forward. Stonehill was a big man, over six foot two, and weighing around two hundred pounds. He may look in good shape, but he was management now, decided Nick, sitting around on his arse all day making phone calls and playing with his spreadsheets. In a scrap, a man who still worked with his muscles was always going to have the edge: he was fitter, sharper, and he knew how to take a punch as well as dish one out. ‘I’ve given you a fair warning,’ he growled.
‘And I’ve given you a fair warning as well,’ barked Stonehill. ‘Now get the fuck out of my sight.’
Nick slammed a fist into the man’s stomach. He took the blow hard in the ribs, and Nick could feel his muscles absorbing the blow. He swung his right fist hard up towards the side of Nick’s jaw, but Nick had readied himself for a predictable response, and had already ducked. The blow landed in the air, temporarily loosening his balance. Nick slammed up his right knee, crunching it into Stonehill’s balls. Should have worn iron underpants, mate, thought Nick grimly. It’s going to be a couple of weeks before you’re bothering the tasty-looking brunette in the picture.
Stonehill was staggering back clutching his groin. ‘You fucking bastard, I’ll bloody throttle you.’
Mistake, pal, thought Nick. This is not a moment for conversation. Talking saps your strength, and weakens your concentration. With his head still down, he slammed his skull straight into Stonehill’s stomach. The air emptied out of his gut, and he started choking. His body collided hard with the wall, and one of the pictures crashed to the floor, sending shards of glass across its surface.
Nick straightened himself up, and then slammed his fist hard into the side of Stonehill’s face. He could feel his knuckles digging into the jawbone, sending ripples of pain up through his arm. He smiled. It was the kind of pain that told a fighter he’d landed a telling blow.
Time to finish you off, pal.
He slammed his fist hard down again, this time aiming for the nose. But Stonehill showed an unexpected turn of agility. His face ducked out of the blow, letting Nick’s fist crash into the plaster of the wall.
Stonehill jerked his right knee upwards, catching Nick in the third rib. It was a powerful blow, expertly struck, and Nick reeled backwards. His chest was shuddering under its impact. Another knee flew up, this time catching Nick on the chin, jerking his jaw hard upwards. He could feel the muscles in his neck stretching, and he was struggling to breathe. Stonehill was already scrambling to his feet, and Nick was struggling to match his agility. Suddenly he was above him. Both his fists were clasped together, and in the next instant they smashed down like a hammer into the back of Nick’s neck. He grunted, then fell to the floor. It felt as if an axe had just been thrust into him. He was lying face down, his mouth barely an inch from the carpet. If this is the way you want to play it, pal, that’s your choice, he thought. Let’s make it interesting.
He rolled on his side, and kept rolling until he’d put five yards between himself and Stonehill. He leapt to his feet. His back was still aching, and the throbbing from his ribcage was starting to spread out across his chest. Ignore the pain, he told himself. You can deal with that later.
‘Now get the fuck out of my office,’ shouted Stonehill.
Nick looked at the man. Sweat was pouring off his face, and there was a trickle of blood down the side of his mouth. But his eyes were still strong, and his expression determined. There’s plenty of fight left in the bugger yet, thought Nick.
‘I’ll die here if I have to,’ said Nick. ‘My daughter’s bloody vanished, and you know something about it.’
He rushed forward, his body fuelled by an angry mixture of adrenalin and fear. He was about to bring Stonehill down to the ground, but his opponent was prepared for him, and a glancing blow smashed into the side of Nick’s face, followed by a foot crashing into his stomach. He was hurled backwards, colliding with the desk, taking a nasty hit to the spine, then falling to the floor.
‘If you’re not out of here in one minute, by God I’ll fucking kill you,’ said Stonehill.
Nick reached across the floor. A shard of glass from the picture was lying close by. He picked it up, and gripped it tight into his palm. He could feel it cutting into his skin but ignored the pain. Advancing slowly, he could see Stonehill edging away from him. With one swift lunge, he threw himself forward, stabbing at Stonehill’s shoulder with the glass. The shard cut through his shirt, then sunk into his flesh, cutting it deep. A spurt of blood shot out, and a howl of agony erupted from the man’s lips. Nick let go of the glass, then took a step back. Blood was dripping from his own hand. He curled it into a tight ball, slamming it into the side of Stonehill’s face. He staggered sideways. Another blow, then another, both of them to the jaw. Stonehill fell to the ground, his face and shoulder a messy pulp of blood and sweat. Nick crashed his foot down into his chest, then pinned his arms down to the floor. He leant his face downwards, so close that Stonehill could feel the fury on his lips.
‘If you don’t start talking to me this minute, I’m going to fucking kill you, then I’m going to go round to your house and kill your wife and kids,’ he said.
There was a silence for a moment. Nick could feel the man’s breath, and he could see his eyes darting from side to side. Blood was still seeping from his shoulder, and although the wound wasn’t serious, if it wasn’t bandaged soon, he was going to lose a lot of blood – and that could be serious. He can’t hang around, thought Nick. He knows what’s going to happen to him. If he doesn’t talk to me soon, he’s going to die.
‘Keith Merton was on our payroll,’ said Stonehill.
The words were hardly more than a whisper.
‘Following me?’
Stonehill nodded.
‘Who’s paying?’
Stonehill took a deep breath. ‘Let me bind up the wound, then I’ll tell you.’
Nick pressed hard into his chest. ‘Talk to me first,’ he spat. ‘Who hired you to follow me?’
‘An outfit called the Lubbock Group.’
‘Who the fuck are they?’
‘It’s an informal grouping of all the big oil companies,’ said Stonehill. ‘They meet in Lubbock, Texas, once a year. It’s very secret, because those boys aren’t meant to be forming cartels. They discuss issues that affect them all – technology, security, the works. And they pay a few guys a lot of money to look after their interests. That’s who the job was for.’
‘So why they hell are they interested in me?’
‘They’re not.’ Stonehill paused. ‘They’re looking for your daughter, Sarah.’
‘They kidnapped her,’ shouted Nick. His fist was hovering just inches from Stonehill’s face, and he could see the man start to grit his teeth in anticipation of the blow. ‘If they lifted her, I’m going to kill the buggers. By hand. One by one.’
‘They haven’t kidnapped her. They’re looking for her as well,’ said Stonehill.
Nick stayed his hand. ‘Why the hell would a bunch of oil industry guys be interested in Sarah?’
‘Her work,’ said Stonehill quickly. ‘She was working on something in Cambridge. Some science to do with energy. One of the things they pay us to do is to keep tabs on a few scientists whose work might be interesting to them. Tap their phones, keep an eye on the emails, that kind of stuff. They were interested in Sarah all of a sudden.’
‘Why “all of a sudden”?’ said Nick.
‘I don’t bloody know,’ snapped Stonehill. ‘I know fuck all about the science. They just give us the names, and we keep an eye on them.’
‘So where the hell is she?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Stonehill. ‘She vanished over a week ago. You know that already. We reported that back to the Lubbock Group, and they went apeshit. I’ve never seen them get themselves in such a state. They told us we had to find her. Money no object.’