by Chris Ryan
A car horn blared as Mallet and Casey jumped out of the E-Class and jogged into the road. Both of them wore baseball caps. Mallet was clutching a laptop in a neoprene sleeve. The driver immediately to the rear stuck his head out of the window of his Rolls-Royce Cullinan SUV and hurled abuse at Bowman, honking his horn as Casey dived into the back seat. Mallet hopped into the front, pulled the door shut and said, ‘Drive.’
They pulled away, leaving Loader behind the wheel of the E-Class. He would keep eyes on the front of the apartment block, watching for any sign of Lang’s acquaintances or trouble from the police, while the rest of the Cell turned the screw on Lang.
Four minutes after leaving the parking garage, Bowman piloted the Range Rover back down the ramp. He berthed the wagon in the parking bay, and the three operators disembarked. The appearance of two strangers in the car park wouldn’t strike the security staff as unusual. Webb had already told the concierge that more guests would be arriving later that morning to ink the contracts. Anyone watching the footage would conclude that Lang had picked up a pair of business associates and ferried them back to his apartment to get the paperwork signed.
Bowman touch-tapped Lang’s key card against the control panel. The lift doors hissed open, the car rocketed them up to the eighteenth floor. They paced down the private hallway, and Bowman knocked three times on the front door to Lang’s apartment, giving the correct signal to Webb. He cranked open the door, pushed inside the foyer a step ahead of Mallet and Casey. Led them across to the living room.
The temperature dropped as soon as Mallet swept inside. Like the devil had just entered the room. Or the moment the sheriff stepped into the saloon to arrest the villainous cowboy. Lang stared warily at the cruel-faced Scot with the ruthless blue eyes and the wave of silver hair. Mallet didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The mobster and the tyrant both seemed to understand they were in the presence of a terrible man. Like coming face to face with an eight-hundred-pound gorilla. A primitive reaction, stretching back millennia, to the days when their ancestors roamed the savannah.
Roidhead slumped heavily in the armchair, half dazed, his bovine face lacquered with blood. Mallet glanced briefly at him, then rested his gaze on Seguma.
‘Step outside the room, sir.’
The president folded his arms defiantly. ‘I’m going nowhere. Not until someone tells me what the hell is going on. Who are you? What are you doing here?’
‘We work for the British security services,’ Mallet said. ‘These three are my associates. We know about your meeting with the Russians later today. We’ve got orders to arrest David Lang.’
Seguma’s mouth went slack for a moment, before he swiftly recovered.
‘This is an outrage. I have done nothing wrong.’
‘You’re not in any trouble,’ Mallet said. ‘We just need to ask your mate a few questions. Straighten a few things out. Now leave us, sir.’ He motioned to Webb and Casey. ‘These two will wait with you in the study until we’re ready to talk.’
Seguma remained seated. He was the feared president of Karatandu. A man who commanded absolute loyalty and obedience from those around him. He wasn’t used to being told what to do, especially by hard-faced Scots with harsh Glaswegian accents.
‘Leave the room,’ Mallet said coolly. ‘If I have to ask again, it won’t be nicely.’
Seguma caught the severe look on Mallet’s face, evidently decided that the Cell team leader wasn’t bullshitting, and stood up. He seized his cane and hat, and then Webb and Casey escorted him out of the living room. Mallet frowned at Roidhead, as if noticing him for the first time.
‘Get that scumbag out of here,’ he said to Bowman. ‘Put him somewhere he won’t bother us. Then you and me will have ourselves a little chat with Davey Boy.’
Fifteen
Bowman hauled Roidhead to his feet and shoved him out of the living room. The guy limped along, breathing heavily as they crossed the hallway and pushed through the doors to the staff quarters. Which was bigger than a broom cupboard, but only marginally. Bowman dumped him on the floor, closed the door and backtracked to the living room. Mallet had taken a seat at the dining table facing out across the balcony. He had the laptop set up in front of him, the screen flipped open.
‘Close the door,’ he said to Bowman. ‘Bring Davey Boy over here. Let’s have a friendly chat.’
Bowman grabbed Lang by his arm, marched him over to the table, set him down next to Mallet at the head of the table. Bowman sat in the chair to the Scot’s right. Lang eyed Mallet suspiciously as the latter dragged his forefingers across the touchscreen pad, scrolling and clicking.
‘What the fuck is this?’ he sneered. ‘You want to show me your private porn collection or something?’
Mallet said nothing. He typed, hit Enter.
Lang smirked. ‘You’re not a spook. I can tell. You ain’t got the look. Not posh enough. You must be the muscle. Thicko soldiers, doing the heavy lifting. Am I right?’
Mallet didn’t say a word.
‘Fuck you, then. Miserable prick,’ Lang said. He cocked his head at Bowman. ‘How’s that touch of the flu, son? Better?’
Bowman stayed silent. Mallet tapped another key on the laptop. Suddenly a long melodic ringtone filled the air. Mallet turned the laptop round, training the built-in camera on Lang. After six seconds, the caller on the other end answered, and an eerie, synthesised female voice filled the air.
‘Hello, David,’ the Voice said.
Lang stared at the blank screen, his eyes shrinking to dots. ‘Who is this?’
‘My name is not important,’ the Voice said in its monotonous automated tone. ‘All you need to know is that I’m from the security services.’
‘Yeah? Then show us your fucking face.’
‘That won’t be necessary. Now, let me explain what’s going to happen. The men in your apartment work for us. We’re going to ask you some questions. And you’re going to give us the answers.’
‘I ain’t saying shit to you poofs. Not to you,’ he said, meeting Mallet’s gaze, ‘or to no fucking computer screen. For all I know, this is some wind-up.’
‘We’re not playing games,’ Mallet said. ‘You’ll do as we say, Davey Boy.’
Lang eased back in his chair and chuckled. ‘Or what? You and your mates will scare me to death? Is that it?’
Mallet glared at him with a look that could skin an animal.
The Voice said, ‘It’s in your interest to cooperate with us, David. We already know you’re planning to meet with the Russian ambassador and Sergei Galkin in Antibes today, at midday.’
‘It’s a free country, last I heard. I can meet with mates. That’s none of your business.’
‘You’ve arranged a meeting with two well-known Kremlin associates behind our backs. We know you and Seguma both wanted to keep this meeting a closely guarded secret. That’s why you conspired to send a body double to the royal wedding.’
Lang said nothing.
‘You’re trying to pressure Seguma into changing allegiance,’ the Voice went on. ‘That’s the real reason for this meeting with the Russians, isn’t it? To persuade him to abandon his alliance with us and bend the knee to Moscow.’
Lang’s shoulders heaved up and down as he let out a dirty laugh. ‘You people don’t know shit.’
Mallet gave him a menacing stare. ‘The game’s up, pal. You’ve been caught red-handed. Tell us what the plan is.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘We’re doing you a favour, you idiot,’ Bowman said.
‘You stuck a gun in my face, son. I’d hardly call that good manners.’
The corner of Mallet’s mouth teased upwards. A wicked glint flashed in his eyes. ‘Tell me something. When was the last time you spoke to your twin brother?’
‘A few days ago. Why?’
‘You should treasure that conversation, Davey Boy. It’ll be the last time you ever speak to him.’
Lang’s expression darkened. ‘The fuck are you talking a
bout?’
‘Freddie was poisoned,’ the Voice said. ‘Last night. At the royal wedding.’
They gave him an abbreviated version of events. Freddie’s collapse and confession, the strong evidence linking Moscow to the attack. His brother’s critical status in an intensive care bed, his dire prognosis. Lang listened in stony silence.
‘You’re lying,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Nah, you lot are playing mind games. This is some sick tale you lot have cooked up.’
‘It’s all true,’ Mallet insisted.
‘No. The Russians wouldn’t do that. Not to Freddie. They ain’t got no fucking reason.’
‘We’re not making it up.’ Mallet gestured to Bowman. ‘In fact, Josh was the one who ran to your brother’s aid. He heard Freddie’s confession. Ask him if you don’t believe us.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘It’s the truth,’ Bowman insisted. ‘The Russians got to your brother. Freddie said so himself. Those were his last words. He wanted me to warn you, before you walked into a trap.’
Lang shook his head angrily. ‘It don’t make sense.’
‘We’re just telling you how it is, Davey.’
‘But if they poisoned Freddie, why haven’t I heard nothing?’ Lang jerked his head at the TV. ‘That story is all over the news, but no one’s talking about my brother.’
‘We’ve withheld the victim’s identity,’ the Voice said. ‘We thought you’d want to know from us first.’
‘This isn’t a game,’ Bowman said sincerely. ‘Your brother’s seriously ill, David.’
Lang drew his gaze back to the solemn-faced figures at the table. He saw the sober look in Bowman’s pale grey eyes, and something in him seemed to break. He looked away and fell silent. His lips began to tremble as he stared out of the balcony windows, beyond the terrace, at the forest of ugly high-rise apartments and skyscrapers. The white specks of cruise ships drifted lazily across the rim of the horizon.
‘How is he?’ he asked quietly.
‘There’s no point sugar-coating it,’ Mallet replied bluntly. ‘Freddie’s going to die. It’s going to be a fucking horrible death, he’ll be in a great deal of pain, and you’re next on the Russians’ hit list.’
Lang searched the horizon, squinting, as if looking for answers. ‘It can’t be . . . Why would they do it?’
Mallet said, ‘It’s over, Davey. Your best bet is to come clean and tell us what’s going on.’
Lang stared at the skyline for a few moments. When he slanted his gaze back to the table, the hard lines had returned to his face.
‘Forget it. I ain’t talking to the likes of you.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ the Voice said over the laptop speaker. ‘The Russians are double-crossing you. They managed to get to your brother at a royal wedding party. They’ll kill you too, if they get the chance. Do you really think they’ll let you walk away from this thing alive? If you tell us what you know, we can help you.’
‘I don’t need your help. I’m a big boy, I’ve made plenty of enemies in my time. I can take care of myself.’
‘We’re doing you a favour, you thick bastard,’ Mallet hissed.
‘You won’t be safe in Monte Carlo,’ said the Voice. ‘The Russians have the run of the principality. They’ll hunt you down and kill you. We can protect you, David.’
Lang gave a derisive snort. ‘Don’t make me laugh. How many Russians have been killed in London over the years? You couldn’t stop them if you tried.’
‘We can do better than your own men,’ the Voice argued. ‘We can offer you a private jet back to the UK, a safe house, round-the-clock protection for you and your family. If you cooperate.’
‘I’ve earned some protection already, haven’t I? All the work I’ve done for you in the past, I must have some credit left in the bank.’
A sharp jolt shot up Bowman’s spine and tingled on the back of his neck. ‘You’ve been working for Six?’
‘’Course I fucking have.’ Lang’s voice dripped with contempt. ‘I’ve been supplying you people with information on the president for years. The people in Ken’s inner circle, his business dealings, his meetings with foreign leaders. Ken hasn’t taken a dump in the last decade without your mates knowing about it.’
Bowman glanced over at Mallet, but the older man showed no hint of surprise. Did he already know about Lang’s involvement with Vauxhall? Bowman wondered. What else isn’t he telling me?
The Voice said, ‘We’re not interested in the past. We’re interested in the future. Start talking, and we’ll get you and your family into a safe house.’
Lang’s face hardened. ‘Nah. I’m grateful for the warning and all. But you can untie me now.’
‘You’re making a serious mistake,’ the Voice warned.
‘Don’t you people have anything better to do?’ Lang jutted out his chin. ‘Here I am, a respectable businessman, enjoying a nice weekend with an old friend, doing nothing wrong, and you come barging in here with your guns and your threats. It’s fucking outrageous. I should sue.’
Mallet leaned back in his chair, rubbing his lightly stubbled jaw. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘Play it that way if you want. But you can forget about getting that OBE you’ve been after.’
The Voice cut in: ‘We know you’ve been paying a private lobbying firm to help you get on the Honours List. They’ve been pressing your claim hard, emphasising your charitable ventures in Karatandu. We have the power to make sure it doesn’t happen.’
Lang snorted loudly. ‘Is that supposed to be a threat?’
‘We’re serious.’
‘You can’t do nothing. I’m a good boy. I pay my taxes. If you had anything on me, you would have used it by now.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Mallet asked.
He leaned across the dining table and smiled coldly. Lang shifted awkwardly in his seat.
‘We know about the secret parties. The ones you’ve been hosting at your mansion in Essex.’ He wagged a finger. ‘The ones with the kids.’
Lang went pale. The arrogant look dropped from his face so hard and fast Bowman almost heard it thud against the parquet flooring.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ His voice was small and quiet.
‘Yes, you do.’ Mallet sat back with folded arms and said, ‘What would your business partners and lieutenants think, if they found out you’ve been smuggling in underage kids for you and your Establishment mates? What would your wife say, come to think of it?’
Hatred flickered behind Lang’s eyes. The look on his face suggested he wanted to reach across the table and strangle Mallet.
‘You wouldn’t . . . you wouldn’t fucking dare,’ he stammered.
‘Want to bet on it?’
‘You can’t prove a thing.’
Bowman said, ‘What about Beth McKee?’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘She was twelve years old when she went missing.’ Bowman bristled with anger. ‘I was in the Met at the time. We looked everywhere for that kid. Her mother was heartbroken.’
‘Terrible. But what has that got to do with me?’
‘You hid the body, didn’t you, Mr Lang?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘I know for a fact that she was last seen at your mansion. Beth was the favourite of one of the lords, wasn’t she? You lured that kid inside and let some rich old bastard abuse her. And when the lord went too far, when he throttled that poor girl to death, you buried her to cover it up. That’s what happened.’
Lang’s face gave nothing away. But the narrowed eyes were filled with the threat of violence, the veins on his neck bunched tight with rage.
Mallet said, ‘Maybe we’ll get the diggers round to your place in Billericay. Start tearing up the grounds. See what we find.’
‘You can’t . . . you don’t have no proof.’
‘We don’t need any,’ the Voice said. ‘All we have to do is create a fuss, and the public will make up their own minds. We’l
l seed stories in the national newspapers. We’ll populate chat rooms and social media with discussions about your sexual orientation. Our contacts will spread rumours among your friends and family. Our friends at Scotland Yard will begin an official investigation. Even if they can’t find anything, it won’t matter. By the time we’re finished, your reputation will have been dragged through the mud. No one will want to go anywhere near you, not even with a barge pole. That’ll have a ruinous effect on your businesses, of course.’
‘Your own life might be at risk, too,’ said Mallet. ‘They don’t tolerate kiddie fiddlers in your line of work. When your mob friends find out, they’ll be arguing over who gets to cut your balls off.’
A pained expression formed on Lang’s face. He swallowed hard and looked out of the window, as if searching for a sign from God. He took a deep breath.
‘Before I talk, I want certain assurances,’ he said.
‘You’re in no position to bargain,’ Mallet replied.
Lang pretended to ignore him and continued to speak directly to the laptop. To the unseen voice in Vauxhall.
‘If I tell you what I know, I want your word that you’ll protect me and my family from the Russians. The gold-star package. Police protection, security details, new identities, the works.’
Silence.
‘We can live with that,’ said the Voice finally. ‘But we can only help you if you answer our questions. If you cooperate fully, we’ll do everything we can to keep you safe.’
Bowman felt his muscles tense with anger. He could barely believe what he was hearing. ‘Why are we pushing the boat our for this guy?’ he growled. ‘He’s a criminal, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Shut up,’ Mallet snapped.
‘Start talking, David,’ said the Voice. ‘Tell us what you’re planning with the Russians.’
‘There’s a deal,’ said Lang. ‘Between President Seguma and the Kremlin. I’ve been working as a go-between for both sides. But you’re wrong about one thing. It ain’t about changing allegiance.’
‘What, then?’
Lang hesitated.
