by Chris Ryan
Here it comes, he thought.
The end of my career.
Mallet stared out of the window at the old Royal Mint.
‘Shame about this place,’ he said in a low mutter, as if talking to himself. ‘This building is a big part of our history. They moved the Mint here from the Tower, two hundred years ago. Back when our ancestors were busy slogging it out with Napoleon. Two years ago, we sold it off to the Chinese. Beijing will use it for their new embassy.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘We used to keep the enemy at the gates. Now we welcome them with open arms. All we care about is whether they’ve got deep pockets.’
Bowman looked at the ex-SAS man in puzzled silence. Is this why Mallet dragged me out of my hotel room? To give me a history lesson at two thirty in the morning?
‘Why am I here?’ he demanded. ‘What do you want with me?’
Mallet stared levelly at him.
‘I’ll cut right to it,’ he said. ‘I’m here to give you an opportunity, Josh. The kind that doesn’t come around very often.’
‘Opportunity for what?’
‘To fight mobsters.’ A crafty grin played out on Mallet’s face. ‘I’m offering you the chance to come and work for the Cell.’
The words hung in the air between them, like apples from a tree. Bowman felt a surge of relief sweep through him. Mallet didn’t call me here to give me the boot.
This is a job interview.
‘Why me?’ he asked.
‘I’ll explain everything in a moment. But first, let me remind you that what I’m about to say is strictly confidential. You are not to repeat this conversation to anyone. Not your mates, your OC, not even your own mother. What I’m about to tell you stays between us. Clear?’
Bowman nodded. ‘Crystal, boss.’
A hot feeling of excitement swelled up inside him. A few minutes ago, I thought I was about to get booted out of the Wing. Now I’m being offered the chance to join the inner sanctum of the Regiment.
‘Tell me,’ Mallet said. ‘How much do you know about what we do?’
‘Not much. The same as the other guys at Hereford, I suppose. You’re part of the Wing. You work closely with the police, Five and Six. Something to do with organised crime.’
‘That’s true. But we do a lot more than that.’
He gestured past his window at the Tower of London. The Shard rose above it on the far side of the Thames, the spire illuminated like some ancient beacon warning of an imminent invasion.
‘Our real job is to protect all of this. The state. Which, in this day and age, means defending British business interests.’
‘From what?’ asked Bowman.
‘From whatever hostile forces threaten it,’ Mallet explained. ‘Mostly, it’s organised crime groups working within or alongside foreign governments. These groups aren’t seeking to engage us militarily, do you see? Their main point of attack is on British businesses, at home or abroad. We’re talking about some of the world’s biggest companies. Huge deals. Billions of pounds at stake.
‘The spooks don’t like to admit it, but British business is what keeps our place at the top table in world affairs. Not nuclear subs or foreign aid, but cold, hard cash. Our task is to protect these interests at all costs, at home and abroad.’
‘Isn’t that Six’s job?’
Mallet’s smile played out across his face. ‘It used to be. But Vauxhall can’t handle the new threats we’re facing. Not alone, anyway. They don’t have the skills for the task. They’re smart people, with their Oxbridge degrees and City contacts, but they’re not good at the rough stuff. They need guys like you and me. That’s why we created the Cell.’
‘To protect some greedy bankers and tax dodgers?’
‘That’s not what we do. We’re the only specialist team dedicated to fighting the gravest threat to our country: foreign criminal elites.’
His Scottish accent grew more pronounced as he warmed to his subject. Bowman listened as he went on.
‘The world has changed, Josh. The desk jockeys in Whitehall like to say that we’re no longer living in a unipolar world. What they really mean is that the rules of the game have been thrown out of the window and we’re in a free-for-all. Traditional state spies are no longer the main threat. It’s not from terrorist groups, either. Some nutter mowing down a few civvies in a truck is a tragedy, but it’s not a serious threat to national security. No,’ Mallet added, ‘these days, it’s all about mobs and big business, working together.’
‘Like Russia, you mean?’
‘Exactly. We all know that Russia isn’t a country, not anymore. It’s a mafia state run by organised crime groups, oligarchs and the security services. Those guys aren’t interested in ideology or state spycraft, and they’re not looking to go toe-to-toe with the West in some direct military confrontation. Bad for business. They’re only interested in lining their own pockets. Their motivation is pure greed.’
‘They don’t sound much different from the gangs in Romford, mate.’
‘Amateur thugs. Small-time crooks,’ Mallet said with a sneer. ‘These guys are different. They’re a cut above your average criminal. And it’s not just the Russians, either. This is a global problem. Everywhere you look, organised mob networks have infiltrated governments. Central America. Eastern Europe. Africa, Asia. In some places they’ve taken complete control. We’re dealing with a whole new criminal elite. These guys pose a serious threat to our interests, at home and abroad. That is why the Cell was created. To fight the criminal groups threatening our security.’
Bowman noticed a hard gleam in Mallet’s eyes. He thought: This man hates mobsters. He hates them almost as much as I do.
‘What has all of this got to do with me?’ he asked.
Mallet thrust a hand into his jacket pocket and plucked a cigarette out of a crumpled packet, lowered the window. He looked at Bowman. ‘Do you mind?’
‘My mother smoked forty a day. She died of lung cancer.’
‘I agree. It’s a terrible habit.’
Mallet sparked up. He sucked in a deep lungful of air, blew it out through the open window.
Bowman waited for him to continue.
‘We’re being given the green light for a hard arrest,’ Mallet said at last. ‘It’s a fastball operation, and it’s going to happen soon. I can’t go into any details at the moment. There’s a briefing later – if you accept our offer. But if you agree to join us, there’s no going back. Once you’re in, you’re in.’
‘Who’s the target?’ asked Bowman.
‘I can’t say right now. That will be explained later. All I can tell you is that if you agree to do this job with us, you’ll be doing your country a great service. This is a highly sensitive mission, lad, and you’re made to measure for it.’
Bowman looked at him doubtfully. ‘What do you mean?’
Mallet tapped the side of his head with a thick finger. ‘You know mobsters. Better than most people. You grew up around them, you went to school with them. You worked undercover in gangs with the Met. That means you know what makes them tick.’
‘That’s why you’re interested in me? Because I’ve hung out with a few gangsters?’
‘It’s one of the reasons, aye. There are others.’
‘Like what?’
Mallet sucked on his cigarette one last time and tossed the butt out of the window. The burning tip somersaulted through the frigid night air. He closed the window.
‘I’ve seen your file,’ he carried on. ‘The Cell keeps a close eye on the rest of the SF community, naturally. We’re always on the lookout for people with particular skills. People such as yourself.’
Bowman shook his head. ‘I’m no different to the other blokes at Hereford.’
‘I disagree,’ Mallet said. He rested his hands in his lap and stared out of the windscreen. ‘You did your undercover work in the Met. Then you left the force and did three years in Special Forces Support Group. Then the Regiment. Multiple tours in Afghanistan, Iraq, followed by a two-y
ear secondment in the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, so that’s your surveillance skills sorted. You’ve done a posting with E Squadron, so you’ve got experience of working with Vauxhall and Thames House. That makes you unusual, you see.’ Mallet hesitated. ‘I know what happened to your family, too,’ he added in a low voice.
Bowman felt something cold and wet slither down the base of his spine. Everyone at Hereford knew the story, the tragedy that had wrecked his life fifteen years ago, but they never mentioned it in his presence. They knew better.
‘What those Albanian thugs did to your wife and daughter was despicable,’ Mallet continued quietly. ‘No husband or father should ever have to deal with that.’
Bowman closed his eyes for a moment. The violent images flashed across his mind again, tormenting him. He saw the blood splatter, the mutilated bodies. His wife and daughter. Murdered.
‘There’s no need to . . . to bring that up,’ he stuttered. ‘There’s not a day that goes by without me thinking about . . . what happened. You can’t imagine . . . ’
His voice trailed, he looked away.
Mallet said, ‘This is your chance for revenge. You can’t bring your loved ones back, but I’m offering you the next best thing. The opportunity to avenge their deaths.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ Bowman said. ‘Those Albanian bastards got away with it. That’s in your bloody file, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, lad, I know. But if you agree to work with us, you’ll be waging war against the criminal elite. The David Langs of the world. The same type of scum responsible for murdering your family. This is a chance to make them pay.’
Bowman stayed silent as he weighed up Mallet’s offer. But he already knew his answer. He’d tried repeatedly to push past the grief, the raw anguish. But somehow, he had never been able to move past it. The one thing he craved – vengeance – was always out of his reach. The pills had dampened the pain, but they had never given him closure. Now he had the opportunity he’d always been looking for.
A tiny voice at the back of his mind told him that he shouldn’t trust Mallet. This guy might be a Regiment legend, but he’s also a world-class manipulator. But at that moment he didn’t really care.
‘And if I say yes?’ he asked. ‘What then?’
Mallet stared at him. ‘Let me be very clear. This is a temporary posting. There are no guarantees that you’ll be kept on once the mission is over. If you screw up, you’ll be straight back to the Wing.’
‘I’ll take the chance. What about Hereford?’
‘Everything’s been cleared with the CO,’ Mallet said. ‘I’ve spoken with Studley as well. It’s all sorted. You’re with the Wing, so you’ve already been positively vetted. In terms of processing – fake passports and ID, cover story – all of that stuff will be sorted later.’
‘I’ll need accommodation,’ Bowman said. ‘Somewhere to kip, while I’m based up here with you lot.’
‘We’ll sort out something for you,’ Mallet assured him. ‘But it won’t be glamorous. A bedsit in Acton, that’s the best we can offer.’
‘I grew up in worse,’ Bowman said, recalling the dilapidated terrace from his childhood. ‘Where’s your base of operations?’
‘I’ll explain that in a bit,’ Mallet replied. ‘But before we go any further, we need to establish a few ground rules.’
Bowman listened as Mallet counted them off on his fingers.
‘One. Our work in the Cell is top secret and absolutely deniable. That means you don’t ever speak about anything you do, see or hear to anyone on the outside. Working for us is like going on a bender in Vegas. What goes on in the Cell, stays in the Cell.’
‘Fine,’ said Bowman. ‘What else?’
‘There’s no need to call me “boss”. You can call me John from now on. The nature of our work means that we’ll sometimes find ourselves in the company of people outside the Regiment. People who won’t know who we are, or what we do. I don’t want you dropping a bollock in that type of situation.’
‘I can manage that . . . John.’
Mallet paused and gave him a long hard look. ‘One more thing. Your brother-in-law. Carter Grant.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s a criminal. No point denying it. It was flagged up when you joined the Wing. The head shed decided to overlook it at the time, but you’ll need to stay away from him now. You can’t be seen in the presence of organised crime figures . . . however hard that may be for you personally.’
Bowman felt a stab of anxiety. He recalled the vetting process he’d undergone when joining the Wing. They had listened to his phone calls, read his text messages, emails and social media posts. They had even dived into his bank accounts to search for dodgy transactions. At the time, he had assumed he was in the clear. But now he started to wonder what else they might have uncovered. He mentally reviewed the trips he’d made to Freddie Lang’s club in Romford over the past few months, the pills he’d scored from Lenny Scavell.
Does Mallet know about my addiction? If so, why is he offering me a job with the Cell?
‘I understand it will be difficult not seeing your sister and your niece,’ Mallet went on. ‘But that’s the sacrifice you’ll have to make if you want to join the Cell.’
Bowman sighed inwardly with relief. He doesn’t know.
‘Well?’ Mallet spread his hands. ‘Are you interested?’
‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘I’m in.’
‘Good.’
Mallet turned and rapped his knuckles on the glass twice. Through the tinted glass, Bowman saw the heavies turn round and yank open the car doors before they folded themselves back inside the BMW. Henderson rode shotgun. Buzzcut took the wheel. Williams squashed in the back, next to Bowman and Mallet. The latter signalled to the driver in the rear-view mirror.
‘OK, guys. Let’s go.’
Buzzcut met his eyes in the rear-view and fired up the engine. He steered smoothly away from the taxi bay, glanced over his shoulder and pulled out into the main road. They cantered on past the old Royal Mint and headed east, beyond Tower Bridge.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Bowman.
‘Headquarters,’ Mallet said. ‘There’s a team briefing in half an hour. Then we’ll tell you all about the mission.’
Nine
They drove east and then north, away from the river. Bowman sat in the back, fighting off a wave of exhaustion. Things were moving fast. Faster than he’d expected. Bowman had assumed that the UKNs would ferry him back to his hotel after the meeting with Mallet. He could pop a couple of pills, get his head down and grab a few hours of kip, before getting a full briefing the next morning.
Instead, they were going straight to work.
Push through it. There’ll be plenty of time to rest later.
Buzzcut kept the BMW ticking along as they motored through Aldgate. They passed a chaotic mishmash of ancient churches, newbuild apartment blocks and fried chicken shops. Fragments of the old city poked through the clutter: an old-school boozer named after a long-dead admiral, a greasy spoon, a curry house that looked as if it had been doing business since the Gordon Riots. Buzzcut made several quick turns, and then they rolled down a wide street flanked by steel-and-glass apartment blocks and trendy co-working spaces. At two forty in the morning, the streets were empty. After three hundred metres Mallet motioned for him to pull over.
‘OK,’ Mallet said. ‘This is fine.’
Buzzcut parked the BMW at the side of the road but kept the motor running. Bowman looked enquiringly at Mallet. They had been driving for about six minutes since setting off from the old Royal Mint.
‘The Cell is here?’
‘Get out,’ Mallet said. ‘Follow me.’
They slid out of the back seat, breath misting in the night air. Henderson swerved round to the boot, popped it open and handed the leather holdall to Bowman. He dived back into the front passenger seat, and a few moments later, the BMW sped away.
Bowman followed Ma
llet as he started across the road, towards a drab grey building sandwiched between a gastropub and an accountancy firm. Blinds covered the windows on every floor of the building. There was a canopied entrance, but no company sign. Nothing to indicate what sort of business went on inside.
‘What is this place?’ asked Bowman.
‘Used to be a police station,’ Mallet said. ‘Back in the seventies. Before your time. It closed down a few decades ago. Been empty ever since. There’s a range in the basement. The lads in SO19 use it for shooting practice, but no other fucker knows about it.’
‘This is where you lot are based?’
‘For now. Some day, it’ll be sold off to a property developer for big bucks,’ he grumbled. ‘But for now, this is our HQ.’
Bowman gazed up at the six-storey building. In his head, he’d imagined the Cell would be based somewhere remote, far from the public eye. A disused industrial estate in Hertfordshire or Essex, maybe. Not a few minutes’ walk from the bustle of the City.
‘Isn’t this a bit conspicuous?’ he asked.
‘The Regiment hid in plain sight in Ulster,’ Mallet reminded him. ‘We’re simply doing the same thing. And it gives us the chance to keep an eye on those pricks in the City.’
Bowman followed him up the steps. They stopped in front of the intercom panel fixed to the wall. Signs either side of the door warned that security cameras were in operation. Mallet pressed a large button and glanced up at the camera above the door, identifying himself to whoever was watching. Several moments passed. Then the door buzzed, and Mallet ushered Bowman into a sparsely furnished enquiry office. The decor was horribly dated: worn carpet, nicotine-stained walls, panel lighting. Every surface was thickly covered in dust. A fat, bored-looking security guard sat behind the glass partition, staring at a bank of computer screens.
Mallet held up his security pass. The podgy guard glanced briefly at it then waved the two men through and went back to screen-watching. Mallet led Bowman down a bland corridor until they reached a bank of lifts. He punched the call button, the scuffed metal doors scraped open, and they stepped inside. Mallet swiped his card against the reader, pushed another button on the panel and the doors thunked shut again.
