by Ryan, Chris
‘You learn how to handle yourself in a scrap.’
‘Then can you explain to me why a veteran soldier would feel intimidated by three young graduate students from good family backgrounds, with no criminal convictions or police records?’
‘You’ve seen the size of them. They’re big lads. I was defending myself.’
They asked him some more questions. Then Tierney explained in his gentle voice that, based on the witness statements and evidence gathered from the scene, Bald was being formally charged. An officer would escort him at the earliest opportunity to the Sherriff’s Court in Campbeltown, on the mainland. However, the last ferry from Port Askaig had already departed and he could not be transferred until the following morning.
Which meant he would be spending the night behind bars.
Draper escorted him out of the interrogation room and took him back to his cell. Ninety minutes later, Hourihane brought him food in a takeaway container, ordered from a local hotel. Chicken in a garlic and herb sauce, potatoes and vegetables. She handed him plastic cutlery, a can of Diet Coke and a slice of chocolate cake. Bald thanked her. Hourihane smiled at him and noticed the bruising on the side of his face. She promised that she’d fetch the local doctor tomorrow, once the practice opened.
Then she returned to her desk.
The night passed slowly. Bald had time to think. He had slipped a long way since leaving the Regiment. That much was obvious. Back then Bald had been an outstanding operator, one of the finest Blades ever to serve in 22 SAS. Now he was a nobody, a washed-up warrior on the downward slope of his life.
In many ways, that was what the Regiment did to you. You turned up at Hereford, passed Selection, earned the right to wear the famous beige beret, and for a brief while you were a rock star. Everyone wanted a piece of you. Then you handed in your notice, and you went back to being a nobody all over again.
Bald had spent the past ten years fighting that reality.
Now he was looking at a stretch in prison.
Face it, John Boy, the voice in his head told him. You can’t wriggle your way out of this one. All the dark shit you’ve pulled over the years. The money you’ve stolen. People you’ve maimed and killed. And in the end, you’re going down for lamping a trio of Aussie gobshites.
It’s almost fucking funny.
The first shafts of daylight spilled through the window grille at seven o’clock the following morning. Two hours later, there was a grating rasp as the cell door opened and a young chubby-faced constable he didn’t recognise guided him down the corridor.
Bald assumed he was being taken out to a waiting police vehicle. A short ride to the port at Askaig on the eastern coast of the island, and then a ferry to Kennacraig on the Kintyre peninsula.
This is it, John Boy.
End of the fucking road.
His mind worked feverishly, trying to look for a way out of his predicament. Maybe he could escape when they disembarked from the ferry, Bald thought. He could make a run for it and lose the cops on the mainland. Risky, but it was better than ending up in a shite Scottish prison, watching his back in case he got shanked.
He was still running through the plan in his head when the constable stopped outside the interview room.
‘Here you go, pal,’ he said. ‘They’re waiting inside.’
Bald pulled a face. ‘Who?’
The constable stared at him. ‘Your friends from London. Got here a few minutes ago.’
He opened the door and gestured for Bald to step inside. Bald glanced questioningly at the officer for a moment. He wondered if somebody, perhaps an old friend, had learned of his plight and called a solicitor up to deal with his case. Unlikely, but who else could it be?
He took a breath and swept into the room.
FOUR
There were two figures seated at the table in the interrogation room, a man and a woman. They weren’t wearing police uniforms. They didn’t look much like solicitors, either. No paperwork on the table, no briefcases or work bags resting beside their chair legs. Which was a dead giveaway. Lawyers, in Bald’s experience, never went anywhere without a briefcase.
The guy looked like he was modelling for the cover of World’s Blandest Man magazine. He wore a two-piece navy suit with a plain white shirt and perfectly knotted grey tie. Standard corporate uniform. He was forty or thereabouts, with receding hair and a neatly shaven face. Slim, but not athletic. He looked like he should be working in the accounts department for a large insurance company. The guy was so middle-of-the-road you could have used him to paint lines on a stretch of asphalt.
The woman was younger. Bald guessed she was in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. She gave off a whole different vibe. She had rose-dusted cheeks, a button nose and big blue eyes, like something out of a Japanese cartoon. She wore a dark grey jacket, matching trousers and a sky-blue shirt. Professional but relaxed. She looked sparky and confident, thought Bald. Someone who knew what she wanted from life and what she had to do in order to get it. A hint of a smile teased out of the corner of her mouth as she looked up at him.
‘Hello, John,’ she said.
Bald stood rigid in the doorway.
A question ricocheted like a bullet through his skull.
Who the fuck are these people?
The smile teased a little wider out of the rose-cheeked woman’s mouth. She gestured to the vacant chair.
‘Take a seat,’ she said. ‘Please.’
Mr Bland just stared at him.
Bald eased himself into the chair, resting his cuffed hands on the table. The woman waited until the constable had left, closing the door behind him. Then she said, ‘You probably have a lot of questions.’
‘Aye,’ Bald said. ‘You could say that, lass. With fucking bells on.’
The woman shifted.
‘We’ll get straight to it. My name is Stevie Cope. You can call me Stevie. This is my colleague, Gus Wheeler.’ She indicated Mr Bland. ‘As you’ve probably guessed, we’re with the Branch.’
Bald sat up ramrod straight. His gaze shifted from Cope to Wheeler and back again. Several things suddenly clicked into place.
The General Support Branch, known simply to those who worked in it as ‘The Branch’, was the secret unit within MI6 that worked closely with serving and former members of 22 SAS, carrying out deniable black ops around the world. Missions that were known only to a handful of people, often carried out in places the British government wasn’t officially involved in, for reasons that frequently eluded the guys on the ground. The Regiment provided the muscle for such ops. They were the guys who kicked down doors.
Bald had carried out several ops with the Branch in the past. You worked with them at your peril, he knew. If things went south, Six would hang you out to dry without hesitation.
‘I’m sorry you had to spend the night here,’ Cope went on. ‘But we got here as quickly as we could. I’m afraid we couldn’t handle this thing over the phone. Too delicate.’
Bald frowned. ‘You heard about me getting arrested?’
‘Of course.’
‘How?’
‘Our friends at GCHQ have a system in place. They constantly screen national and local police computer systems. Any information logged relating to current or former members of the security services and special forces is automatically red-flagged and pinged over to Vauxhall. Your name was flagged yesterday afternoon, in relation to an alleged assault on private property not far from here.’
‘It was self-defence.’
Cope shrugged. ‘Call it what you want. As soon as Madeleine was alerted to the . . . incident, she decided to send up a team to liaise with you. So here we are.’
Bald tilted his head. ‘You know Maddy Strickland?’
‘Of course.’ Cope’s smile widened. ‘She’s our boss. She’s the director of the Branch these days, you know.’
‘Good for her.’
‘I understand you two worked together on an operation once.’
‘We did. A couple of years
back.’
‘She’s full of stories about you. Said you were a bit of a legend in the SAS.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘My dad was Para Reg. Must have served around the same time as you. He was always in awe of the SAS. He’d be thrilled if he knew I was sitting here with you now.’
There was a gleam of admiration in Stevie Cope’s eyes as she spoke. He detected a certain respect for the Regiment, for the things he had done for Six. There was none of the usual MI6 arrogance. She reminded him of Madeleine Strickland, in that respect. Bald found himself warming to her, against his better instincts.
He leaned back in his chair and said, ‘I’m assuming Maddy didn’t send you two up for a friendly chat.’
‘She’s concerned. She read the sergeant’s report. You’re in trouble, John.’
‘I’m a big boy. I can look out for myself.’
‘Not this time. It’s three against one. Your word, versus the three Australians you floored. If the judge rules against you, with your record, you’re looking at a custodial sentence.’
‘I’ll take my chances.’
‘Listen, you thick bastard,’ Wheeler snapped. ‘We’re doing you a favour here, so start showing some appreciation.’
Bald looked at the guy with flat eyes. ‘It talks.’
Cope shot a look at Wheeler. Then she coughed and said, ‘What my colleague is trying to say is that we’re here to help you. We can make this problem of yours go away.’
‘Forget it. No offence, love, but I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than get help from Six. Too many strings attached.’
Cope shook her head. ‘There’s no strings this time.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘I mean it. All we’re asking you to do is come down to London with us for a briefing. Hear Madeleine out.’
A frown creased Bald’s face. ‘What’s the mission?’
‘We’re not authorised to discuss operational details. If you want to know more, you need to speak with Madeleine.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then Madeleine will be very disappointed,’ said Cope. ‘She’ll still do what she can to help you avoid a prison sentence, but obviously there are no guarantees.’
‘Then tell Maddy thanks for the offer, but no.’
‘Meeting with her is in your best interest, John.’
‘I disagree. It’s nothing personal against her, but Vauxhall has got previous for stabbing me in the back. Working with you lot should come with a health warning.’
‘Things have changed. It’s not like it used to be.’
‘It’s funny. The more you people tell me that, the more things seem to stay the same.’
‘The old guard have retired. New people have moved in. The mood music is different now.’
Bald shook his head. ‘You can’t change the nature of the beast. Back-stabbing is practically engrained into the DNA over at that fucking place. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you set this whole thing up just so you two could get in a room with me. Those Aussies might be working for you, for all I know.’
That drew a derisive snort from Wheeler. ‘Don’t kid yourself. You’re not that important.’
Cope gave him another sharp look. Bald formed the impression that Cope, although much younger than her colleague, was the more senior intelligence officer.
Bald had seen Wheeler’s type before. The smug grin, the posh accent and condescending attitude. Six was full of guys like that. They tended to look down on the lads in the Regiment as thick cavemen, only good for killing people.
Cope said, ‘You need to consider your situation. We’re throwing you a lifeline here. A chance to get back on your feet.’
‘I’m doing just fine,’ said Bald.
‘Really?’ Wheeler looked at him with raised eyebrows. ‘It doesn’t look that way, chum. We’ve seen the accounts for your business, you know. You’re on the verge of closure. Best-case scenario, you scrape through the summer season and fold over the winter. Assuming you don’t go to jail.’
Bald looked from Wheeler to Cope. ‘What’s really going on here? Six hasn’t given a flying toss about me for two years. Then you two suddenly show up and start making me offers. The last time I saw Maddy, I told her I was done with all that.’
‘The situation has changed.’
‘Find someone else to do your dirty work. There’s plenty of ex-Regiment lads hanging about in Hereford.’
‘That’s not an option for us. We need someone immediately. Someone known to Six. Someone we can trust to get the job done.’
‘Forget it. Not interested.’
‘Madeleine is prepared to make you a very good offer for your services.’
Which got Bald’s attention.
‘What kind of offer?’ he asked.
‘Madeleine will discuss the particulars with you at the briefing. But let’s just say that we’re prepared to offer you a generous package.’
‘What about the charges against me?’
‘The victims have been informed that they have outstayed their welcome.’
‘Meaning?’
Cope said, ‘We’ve done some digging. Turns out that two of the victims have been working here for several months without the appropriate visas. They’ve been informed that unless they retract their statements, they could be going to jail.’
‘They agreed?’
‘They’re professional scammers. They’ve pulled the same trick at several other hotels, threatening management with negative reviews unless they let them stay for free. They’re looking for free meal tickets, not justice.’
‘Word to the wise,’ Wheeler said. ‘Perhaps vet your guests more carefully in future.’
Bald pointed at Wheeler. ‘Fuck me, this one’s full of good ideas.’
Cope ignored the comment. ‘What do you say?’
‘What about my staff? I can’t just leave them high and dry. I’ve got wages to pay. Bookings to fulfil.’
‘Leave that to us,’ said Wheeler. ‘We’ll find someone to manage the sale of the business. Make sure your people get what’s owed to them.’
‘This is a good deal that we’re offering,’ Cope put in. ‘Money and a get-out-of-jail-free card. You won’t find a better offer.’ She paused. ‘Well? Do you accept?’
Bald hesitated. On the one hand, he really didn’t want to get into bed with Six. No matter how shitty his life had become, it was a lot less stressful with Vauxhall in the rear-view mirror. He was sorely tempted to tell Wheeler to piss off.
But then the voice piped up in his head.
There’s nothing left for you here, it said. Nothing except a failed business and a stack of unpaid bills. At least if you go back to working for Six, you’ll be doing something you’re good at.
Bald was aware that his confidence had been dented recently. He wasn’t the ruthless warrior he had once been. He had tried his hand at playing it straight, running an honest business and keeping his nose clean. All that had got him was a bank account in the red and a night in a prison cell.
You can’t fight who you are, John Boy.
It was time to go back, he realised. Back to being John Bald. The hardest, meanest bastard who had ever passed Selection. The guy every other Blade lived in fear of.
‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘When do we leave?’
FIVE
Cope didn’t give him a straight answer. She told him to sit tight, then stood up and left the room to make some calls. Several minutes later, she returned with the portly constable in tow. The constable escorted Bald back to the duty desk while another officer retrieved the sealed bags with his valuables. Then a tired-looking Sergeant Tierney appeared from his office and asked Bald to sign some paperwork. Tierney expressed surprise that the Australians had retracted their original statements, glancing at Cope and Wheeler as he spoke. Bald doubted they would have told the sergeant who they really worked for. That wasn’t the way Six did things. Tierney probably knew that they were with the Ministry o
f Defence, but nothing more than that.
They emerged from the station to a filthy grey morning, damp, blustery and cold. Droplets of rain clung to Bald’s silver hair and face as he followed Cope and Wheeler over to a blue Skoda Fabia hatchback parked at the side of the road. Cope gestured to the rear passenger door. Bald folded himself into the back seat while Wheeler rode shotgun. Cope took the wheel.
They drove east and then north out of Bowmore and made a brief stop at the B&B. Bald grabbed the go-bag he always kept stowed under the bed in his living quarters. He found Magda cleaning up the guest cottage and told her that he was leaving on an urgent family matter. Someone else would be coming in to manage the lodge in his absence, he said. Magda didn’t seem too bothered by the news. She asked again about a pay rise. Bald told her to take it up with the new management. Then he hurried back to Cope and Wheeler in the Skoda.
They drove south towards Port Ellen, passing peat bogs and broken hills; a grey churning sea to the west, the horizon wreathed in shreds of mist. Not a landscape Bald was going to miss, on reflection. He figured he would move somewhere warm after this. Somewhere with cold beer on tap, white sand and scantily clad women. That was more to his taste.
They reached Port Ellen twenty minutes later and drove through the small marina, passing the handful of fishing boats and yachts moored along the wooden jetty on their way to the terminal for the ferry to the mainland.
A large crowd of distillery day-trippers, island-hoppers and locals were already boarding the vessel ahead of its departure. Cope showed their tickets to a terminal worker in a hi-vis jacket and joined the line of vehicles snaking up the boarding ramp. She parked the Skoda on the car deck, and the three of them rode the lift up to the main passenger deck.
They located a bar on the upper deck, found a spare table overlooking the stern and settled in for the journey. Cope ordered drinks. Bald went for a Diet Coke. Wheeler asked for a bottle of sparkling water and Cope had a frothy latte. Bald sipped from his glass, watching the ferry pull away, leaving a foamy trail in its wake. Cope tapped out messages on her phone.
Bald said, ‘What’s the plan, once we hit the mainland?’