Circle of Death - Strike Back Series 05 (2020)

by Ryan, Chris

  ‘We’ll head to the airport at Campbeltown and take a privately chartered flight down to RAF Northolt. A driver will meet us there. He’ll take you straight to the meeting.’

  ‘Where’s the briefing?’

  ‘Off-site. A secure location in central London. You’ll find out more once we land.’

  Bald puckered his brow. ‘Why is Maddy reaching out to me? She’s the head of the Branch. She can tap up the Regiment for some extra muscle whenever she wants. Why me?’

  Cope looked up from her phone screen. ‘Madeleine would prefer to use someone from outside the system for this mission. She feels there’s less risk of leakage.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Bald growled. ‘Whatever op you’re running, this thing is off the books. That’s why Maddy sent for me in the first place, isn’t it? I’ve got no links to Six or the Regiment these days. I’m not on anybody’s payroll. I’m a deniable asset.’

  ‘As I said, I’m not authorised to discuss the details of the operation.’

  ‘At least give us a clue. I’ve got a right to know what I’m letting myself in for here.’

  ‘You know I can’t. This operation is strictly need-to-know. That goes for everyone inside the Branch as well.’ She flashed a reassuring smile. ‘Everything will be clear in a few hours, I promise.’

  Bald considered arguing the point. He could pressure Cope, threaten not to get on the plane unless she spilled the beans. But she seemed genuinely in the dark about the op. He decided he was getting nowhere and changed the subject. Might as well try to butter this woman up instead. Form a bond with her. Someone as young as her, she was obviously going places. She might prove a useful ally in the future.

  Might even get a shag out of it.

  ‘You said your old man was Para Reg.’

  Cope nodded. ‘Twelve years. He joined Three Para a year before the war in the Falklands. He was there at Mount Longdon, fixing bayonets and charging at the enemy. My brother and I would get him to tell us the story before bed. Not the usual children’s bedtime stories, I guess.’

  ‘You were never tempted to join the army?’

  ‘I had my heart set on it. I was going to join the Medical Corps as soon as I finished school. I wanted to be a combat medic. The next best thing to serving on the frontline.’

  ‘What changed?’ asked Bald, feigning interest.

  ‘My dad. He sat me down one night, told me he’d spoken with my teachers. They were encouraging me to apply for uni, but I wouldn’t hear any of it. Dad told me that I shouldn’t be trying to follow in his footsteps. He said that would be a mistake. He said he’d regretted never getting a proper education and told me I should try and make something more of my life. He kept pestering me until I eventually caved in and agreed to give uni a try. In my mind, I was only doing it to shut him up.’ She smiled. ‘I ended up going to Durham on a scholarship, then joined Six straight after I graduated.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Bald said, still pretending to give a toss.

  She cocked her head at him. ‘What about you? Why the SAS?’

  ‘I’m a bastard. And I’m good at killing. With them skills, I was either going to be a gangster or a Blade.’

  ‘There must have been more to it than that.’

  ‘Not really. Not for me, anyhow. Some of the other lads went in for all that queen and country bollocks, but not me.’

  ‘You don’t believe in serving your country?’

  ‘Not a fucking chance. The good guys are as bent as everyone else. They’re just better at hiding it.’

  ‘That’s a cynical way of looking at the world.’

  ‘Aye, maybe. But it’s true.’

  ‘Some of us believe what we’re fighting for.’

  ‘Good for you. But I’m not one of them. Never will be.’

  ‘Why did you agree to come down with us, then?’

  ‘Money,’ said Bald. ‘That’s my allegiance.’

  ‘That’s sad.’

  ‘Is it? What about young lads being sent to their deaths in Iraq and Afghanistan, because a bunch of crooked politicians lied through their teeth? You want to talk about sad, you should start there.’

  ‘You sound bitter.’

  ‘I’m a realist. I’ve fought in my fair share of wars. I know how the world works.’

  Cope gave him a considered look. ‘Do you miss it? The Regiment?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Soldiering is a young man’s game, lass,’ said Bald. ‘And I’m a long fucking way from young.’

  ‘That’s not what Madeleine seems to think.’

  ‘Her opinion might be biased.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself. Madeleine isn’t known for being sentimental. Just because you two worked together once, doesn’t count for a thing.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Cope stared levelly at Bald. ‘Trust me. I know Madeleine, better than most people. If she’s asked for you, it’s because she needs whatever skills you’ve got to get this mission done.’

  ‘Which is what, exactly?’

  Cope smiled at him. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

  They docked at Kennacraig two hours later. They went through the whole boarding procedure in reverse. Took the lift back down to the car deck, climbed into the Skoda and drove down the ramp leading to the ferry terminal. Cope followed the directions on the built-in satnav and took the main road running south along the coastline towards Campbeltown. The same route Bald would have taken to the Sherriff’s Court.

  Next time, you won’t be so lucky.

  Forty minutes later, they reached Campbeltown Airport.

  A Cessna light jet was waiting for them on the tarmac stand. Wheeler explained that the aircraft belonged to a private security company that worked closely with the security services on various ops. Some guys called GreyWatch International. A new firm, apparently. Bald had never heard of them. He wondered why a security business was laying on a Cessna for Bald and his minders.

  There was no check-in procedure. Nobody asked to see their passports. Bald, Cope and Wheeler bypassed security and were led straight through the terminal building and across the stand to the Cessna. They settled into their seats and took off at a little past four o’clock in the afternoon. Soon they were climbing through the dense clouds, leaving Scotland behind.

  There was no alcohol on the plane, so Bald helped himself to coffee from the on-board pod machine and skimmed through a copy of The Times. A bunch of people had glued themselves to buildings in London, protesting about the climate. Economists were predicting another recession. There was a full-page article on a campaign to release a British academic being held in Venezuela. A young woman. Caroline Fuller.

  The campaign was gathering momentum, according to the report. There was a photograph of Fuller before her arrest, next to a shot of a group of protestors outside the Venezuelan embassy in London, demanding her release. The article carried a report from the woman’s father, criticising the prime minister for not doing more to secure his daughter’s freedom.

  Bald was leafing through the sports pages, searching for news on his beloved Dundee United, when Cope moved down the aisle and sat opposite him.

  ‘We’ll be landing in twenty minutes,’ she said. ‘Our driver is waiting inside the terminal. He’ll take you directly to the meeting. Madeleine will be waiting for you both there.’

  ‘Both?’ Bald repeated.

  Cope nodded. ‘This isn’t a solo mission, John. You’ll be working as part of a five-man team.’

  Bald scratched his jaw. An off-the-books op for Six, involving a team of five guys. He started to wonder what he’d let himself in for. Maybe I should have taken my chances in court.

  ‘Who else is on the team?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re being activated as we speak. Three outsiders, but I don’t know their names. Americans. Special Forces. Plus another ex-SAS operator.’

  ‘Another Hereford lad?’ Bald asked. ‘Who?’

  ‘I believe
you know him,’ said Cope. ‘John Porter.’

  SIX

  At that moment, John Porter, lifelong alcoholic and ex-Regiment hero, was standing inside a pub in east London and trying to ignore the voice inside his head.

  Three years had passed since Porter had last touched a drop of booze. There had been moments when he’d almost slipped, but each time he’d managed to catch himself before it was too late. It had been hard work – the hardest fight of his life – but Porter had won. He had gone sober. Cleaned up his act.

  Fifteen years ago, he’d been sleeping rough on the streets of Vauxhall, drinking cheap voddie and scrounging for pennies, blackballed by his muckers in the SAS.

  Now he had a modest house on Dinedor Hill on the outskirts of Hereford. He had a steady job, working for the security services on a part-time basis, providing the muscle for field officers on ops overseas and acting as a bodyguard to persons of interest to MI6. When he wasn’t doing their bidding, Porter supplemented his income by house-sitting for celebrities and wealthy foreigners, safeguarding their multi-million-pound London properties. The job was stress-free and undemanding, providing him with a safe cover story for his work with Six. Whenever they needed him, he could be taken off the job at extremely short notice and replaced with another ex-Hereford man.

  His current job involved watching the Belgravia residence of the Sultan of Brunei. There could be no easier task for a former Blade. Porter worked in twelve-hour shifts with another ex-SAS bloke, patrolling the grounds and making sure that everything was in order in case the owner showed up. It was an achingly dull routine but it paid well. And it was better than begging for scraps on the streets.

  Despite everything he had suffered, Porter had made something of his life.

  But he could never truly silence the voice.

  It was always there, nicking away at the base of his skull. Tempting him to go back to his old ways.

  Telling him to have a drink.

  Some days the voice was so faint he barely noticed it. At other times, it was almost impossible to ignore.

  Right now, the voice was really fucking loud.

  Given his history of legendary alcohol abuse, hanging out in a bustling pub in the East End was probably not the best idea. But Porter wasn’t there to get pissed. At least, not today.

  He was there for his daughter.

  Sandy.

  Six months had passed since Porter had last seen or heard from her. At the time she had been living with him, along with her three-year-old son Charlie, Porter’s grandson, at his place in Hereford.

  For a while, things had been good between them. It hadn’t been easy for her, but she had forgiven Porter for the years he’d been absent from her life, first in the Regiment and then on the piss. He had done his best to make it up to her, taking Sandy in after she had split up with her long-term fiancé and supporting her while she raised Charlie.

  And then, suddenly, everything had gone pear-shaped.

  It had started last summer, when Sandy had begun seeing a new bloke. Jared. Some guy she had met on a dating app that Porter had never heard of. Sandy had a unique talent for choosing dead-beat boyfriends, but even by her own standards Jared was a special waste of space. He claimed to be a grime producer and an influencer, but as far as Porter could tell, the guy was a heavily tattooed dope fiend who sponged off Sandy and spent most of his time on his PlayStation. For a while Porter had kept the peace, hoping that Sandy would eventually see through the guy’s act. Then one night over dinner she had announced that they were moving in together.

  Porter had flipped.

  ‘Dad, I’m just asking you to give him a chance,’ Sandy had said. ‘He’s great with Charlie. He’s a good person, you’ll see.’

  ‘He’s a waster, love,’ Porter had said back. ‘I’m telling you, he’s bad news.’

  ‘He loves me. He takes care of Charlie. Why can’t you see that?’

  ‘It’s all an act. Trust me, Sandy. This bloke is playing you like a fiddle.’

  ‘You barely know him, Dad.’

  ‘I know the type. He’s fucking arsenic.’

  ‘Why don’t you want me to be happy?’

  ‘I’m just trying to protect you,’ Porter had said. ‘I don’t want you getting hurt.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel that way, Dad.’

  Porter had tried his best, but Sandy had made up her mind.

  A month later, there had been an argument at her place. Porter had noticed a bruise on Sandy’s arm. She claimed to have injured herself fixing up a shelf but Porter was convinced that Jared had struck her. He had gone over to confront the guy. The two of them had come to blows, and Porter ended up striking him on the face, busting his nose. Sandy had managed to persuade Jared to drop the charges, but she had decided to leave Hereford soon after. Porter had begged her to stay.

  ‘I can’t,’ Sandy had told him. ‘Please don’t ask me to do that.’

  Porter had shaken his head. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘You know why. Jared thinks you’re a bad influence on Charlie. He says some space would be a good idea.’

  ‘He’s pulling the wool over your eyes, love. He’s manipulating you. Just stay here. We’ll work it out.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Sandy had said. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. But you hit the man I love, in front of my son. It’s going to take a long time to forgive you for that.’

  Since then, Sandy had cut off all communication with Porter. She had blocked him on social media and ignored his repeated phone messages and voicemails. Eventually, he had managed to track her down through one of her friends. A former uni roommate had told him that she had seen Sandy pulling pints at the Green Eagle, an old-school watering hole on Hackney Road. After finishing his shift for the day at the sultan’s Belgravia mansion, Porter had decided to head over to the pub and check it out for himself.

  He sipped his sugary orange juice and scanned the crowd for the hundredth time since he’d set foot in the bar a few minutes earlier.

  The Green Eagle looked like something out of a Guy Ritchie film. The walls were covered in wood panelling, the windows were decorated with engraved glass and a thick odour of spilled beer, polished wood and cheap detergent lingered in the air. At a little past five thirty, the place was half full. On the TV above the bar, there was a brief report on Channel 4 News on the campaign to release a British academic who had been detained in Venezuela. A throng of angry protestors, waving colourful placards and shouting for the government to take action.

  Behind the bar, a heavily tanned guy in a silk shirt with gold rings on his fingers – presumably the landlord – chatted with a couple of weathered-looking blokes in hi-vis jackets.

  Still no sign of his daughter.

  He wondered how it had come to this. He thought about the degree Sandy had earned in English Literature. How proud he’d been when she’d graduated. Some of the other lads at Hereford, their kids had trained as lawyers and doctors and civil servants. A few of them had even followed in their dads’ footsteps and signed up for the army. They were going places in their lives, doing things.

  And my Sandy is working shifts in a rundown London boozer.

  Porter took another sip of his drink and checked his smartphone. A quarter to six. He wondered how much longer he could hang out in the pub without giving in to his demons.

  A few moments later, the kitchen doors swung open and a slender figure swept into the bar.

  Sandy.

  She was dressed in a pair of skinny black jeans, scuffed white Converse trainers and a loose-fitting white T-shirt with a graphic print of a cityscape on the front. She carried a couple of plates piled high with greasy-looking burgers and chips and at first she didn’t appear to see Porter as she threaded her way through the crowd to a table in the opposite corner. He watched her for a few beats as she placed the heart-attack-inducing meals down in front of two older blokes. One of them leered at Sandy as she turned on her heels and made a beeline for the kitchen.


  Porter sprang to his feet and moved to intercept her, picking his way through the crowd of drinkers watching the football.

  ‘Sandy,’ he said, catching up with her before she reached the bar. ‘Sweetheart.’

  Sandy stopped in her tracks. Then she slowly turned towards Porter.

  ‘Dad?’ She frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m worried about you, love. You haven’t been returning my calls. I’ve not heard anything from you.’

  ‘I’ve been busy, Dad.’

  ‘Working here?’

  ‘I’ve got bills to pay,’ she replied defensively. A thought occurred to her. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I’m working across town. One of your friends told me they saw you behind the bar here.’

  ‘You’re still house-sitting for that sheikh?’

  ‘Sultan,’ Porter said. ‘Yeah, still doing that. Ticking over. Keeps me busy.’

  Sandy nodded.

  ‘Where’s Charlie?’

  ‘At home. With a friend.’

  ‘What about Jared?’

  Sandy made a pained face and looked away. ‘He left.’

  Porter nodded gravely. You never wanted to see your kids hurt, even when you knew it was for the best. ‘I’m sorry, love.’

  ‘Are you?’ Sandy swung her gaze back to Porter, her frown deepening. ‘You didn’t look too upset when you were putting him in hospital with a broken nose.’

  ‘I fucked up. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have come here, Dad.’

  ‘I know. But I had to see you.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Come back with us,’ said Porter.

  Sandy looked at him in disbelief. ‘To Hereford?’

  ‘Why not? The spare room’s still free. You and Charlie can stay there for as long as you like. It’ll be just like the old times. I can even take some time off from work, give you a hand.’

  ‘I can’t. Not after what happened.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, love. I know we’ve had our ups and downs, but it’s got to be better than this.’

  From behind the bar, the guy in the satin shirt called out to Sandy. ‘Back to work, darling. Ain’t paying you to stand around chatting to punters all fucking night.’