by Chris Ryan
Bald said, ‘With all due respect, sir, your last team ended up getting beaten up by a homeless thief. Might be worth listening to us instead.’
Lansbury exhaled irritably. ‘Is this really necessary?’
‘It’s for your own personal safety, sir.’
‘Fine. Christ. If it’ll stop you two badgering me. Although I must say, I really don’t see the point.’
He snatched up the tracking clip, unbuttoned his jacket and attached it to the left side of his black leather belt. Secured it to the belt strap and spread out his hands. ‘There? Satisfied?’
‘Very good, sir,’ Bald replied flatly.
Jansen coughed. ‘We should wrap this up, sir. Your driver will be outside any moment.’
Bald and Porter traded confused expressions. Bald said, ‘What’s going on?’
‘Mr Lansbury has a ten o’clock appointment across the city,’ Jansen answered for her boss.
‘Who with?’
‘None of your damn business,’ Lansbury snapped, his irritation growing more pronounced with every passing moment. ‘I’m meeting an old friend, that’s all. Nothing for you two to worry about.’
‘We’ll be coming with you, though?’
‘Absolutely not. There’s no need.’
Porter shook his head firmly. ‘That’s not a good idea, sir. Wherever it is you’re going, we need to be there with you. Sweep the place, check the layers of security.’
‘Not going to happen. This is a private meeting. You’re not coming anywhere near it.’
‘At least let us accompany you in the car.’
‘No. I promised my friend I would come alone. The last thing I want to do is turn up with you two hulking idiots in tow. She’d never forgive me. It would be a betrayal of her trust.’
‘I’m with Porter,’ Bald said. ‘This is a bad idea. We can’t protect you if we’re not there.’
‘And I’m telling you there’s no need.’
‘Sir, we have to insist.’
‘Insist all you want. You’ll do as I bloody well say. Or have you forgotten who’s paying your salaries?’
Bald masked his anger, kept his voice diplomatic. ‘We’re not trying to be difficult. But if you go to this meeting without us and something happens, me and Porter will take the blame.’
‘And I’m telling you, nothing is going to happen. It’s a short hop across the river, for God’s sake. Not a bloody trek into the Afghan mountains.’
‘Sir, with all due respect, I really think we should go with you.’
‘I don’t care what you think!’ Lansbury suddenly exploded. ‘I’m going to this thing alone and that’s the end of it. If you’re not happy with that arrangement then you can pack your bags and take the next flight home, quite frankly.’
Lansbury glared at them, fuming through his nostrils, bristling with indignation.
Bald held up his hands in a gesture of apology. He could see that this was a battle they weren’t going to win. If they tried to push it any harder, they’d find themselves off the team and the mission would be over before it had even begun. And I can kiss goodbye to that corporate job, Bald reminded himself.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, glancing quickly at Porter. ‘We’re just trying to do our jobs. Our only concern is for your safety.’
Lansbury took in a deep breath, calming himself down. ‘Look, I’m grateful for your concern. Really. Very professional and all that. But I’m already wearing this tracker of yours. That’s enough, surely? If I run into trouble I’ll press the button and you’ll soon know about it. Otherwise you can assume that everything is fine. Okay?’
‘Aye. That’ll do just fine, sir.’
‘Can you tell us how long you’ll be, at least?’ asked Porter.
‘I’ve set aside three hours for this thing. Should be back here by one o’clock latest. So there’s your answer.’
‘What’s the deal after your meeting has finished?’
‘Talk to Freya,’ Lansbury replied impatiently. ‘I dare say she knows my diary better than I do.’
They looked towards Jansen. She consulted the calendar app on her phone, reading out from it.
‘Mr Lansbury has a brief phone interview at one-fifteen with the Telegraph. He’ll take that in his room. Then lunch at the Manhattan Bar and Grill across the street. Then back here to make final preparations for this evening’s conference. Mr Lansbury will leave here at four o’clock on the dot. Which reminds me. I spoke with the concierge first thing this morning. He’s sorted you out with a hire car. Speak to him. He’s got the keys.’
Just then Jansen’s phone trilled. She swiped to answer, listened for a few seconds and then placed a manicured hand on Lansbury’s shoulder. ‘Your driver is waiting outside, sir.’
‘Tell him I’ll be out in a minute.’
Jansen relayed the message, quit the call. She ran through a quick checklist with Lansbury, making sure he had his wallet and phone, fussing over him. She didn’t behave like any PA that Bald had ever seen. She was relaxed around her boss. Informal, easy going. Definitely something more going on between them, he decided.
Lansbury clapped his hands together and stood up ramrod straight. ‘Right, a quick nip to the loo then I’m off.’ He stared at Bald and Porter. ‘Unless you two are planning on following me into the toilets while I take a piss as well?’
‘No, sir,’ Bald replied. ‘That won’t be necessary.’
Lansbury harrumphed loudly and marched off towards the restrooms at the other end of the lobby. Jansen put her phone away, turned to address Bald and Porter.
Said, ‘You’ll have to keep yourselves busy until Derek returns from his meeting. Explore the city, or whatever it is you people do in your free time.’
‘What about you?’ asked Bald.
‘I’ll be upstairs, dealing with the daily torrent of emails and media requests. The work never stops.’
‘I can imagine, lass,’ Bald said.
Jansen gave him a funny look.
Porter said, ‘We’ll need the number for the restaurant you’re planning to eat at. Give us a chance to phone ahead and get them to reserve the tables, make sure it’s secure.’
‘I’ll send you the details. Anything else you need, I’ll be in my room.’
She spun away and marched back off towards the bank of lifts. Bald waited until she had disappeared from view and turned to Porter. ‘Quick. Give us one of those coin bugs.’
‘What for?’
Bald jerked a thumb in the direction of the toilets. ‘This muppet knows he’s wearing a tracking device. What if he ditches it? We need a second bug on him as a backup.’
‘You think he’s lying to us?’
‘I think he’s desperate for us not to get eyes on this fucking thing. Which means we need to know what he’s up to.’
Porter dipped a hand into his jacket pocket and dug out the coin-sized mic. Bald snatched it up, reached over for the waxed jacket Lansbury had draped over the armchair. Porter kept an eye on the restroom door while Bald peeled off the back covering from the mic, lifted up the corduroy collar on the jacket and stuck the device to the underside. He pressed down on the bug with his thumb until it was stuck in place. Smoothed down the collar again, folded the coat over the back of the armchair and sat down.
A few moments later, Lansbury swept back into view. He quick-walked over, snatched up his farmer’s coat and nodded at Bald and Porter. ‘I’ll see you two fellows in a while, then.’
‘Yes, sir. Enjoy your meeting.’
‘Oh, I will.’
Lansbury grinned. He threw on his coat and beat a quick path towards the hotel entrance, humming a tune to himself. Through the glass Bald could see a Mercedes-Benz S-Class parked up in front of the main doors. A driver stepped out of the vehicle, circled round and opened the rear passenger door for Lansbury. The same chauffeur who’d picked up Bald and Porter at the airport the previous night. Lansbury slid into the back seat, and then the driver closed the rear door and climbe
d back behind the wheel. The S-Class moved forward about an inch. There was a line of taxis ahead of them, blocking the exit while they disgorged passengers or loaded suitcases. Nine-thirty in the morning. Prime checkout time. Everyone was in a big hurry.
The chauffeur blasted his horn. Bald turned to Porter and said, ‘Get the car keys from the concierge. We need to follow him.’
Porter hesitated. ‘We should call it in to Strickland first. Check with her.’
‘There’s no time. We’ve got to leave now.’
‘What if he spots us?’
‘He won’t. The prick hasn’t set eyes on the rental car yet. He won’t have any way of knowing it’s us.’
Porter looked uneasy. ‘Our orders are to bodyguard Lansbury, not tail him around town. If we call Strickland she might be able to get another team in place. Let them take care of it.’
‘Unless he ditches the tracker first. Then we’re shafted.’
‘What about his room? That needs to be bugged too.’
‘We’ll do that later,’ Bald said. ‘Right now, we need to know who this twat is meeting and why.’
Porter shifted uneasily, pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know, Jock.’
‘Come on, mate,’ Bald urged. ‘Stop being a fucking lackey for Moorcroft and the rest of them suits.’
Porter lingered for a moment longer. Torn between the logic of Bald’s argument and their orders from Vauxhall. Then he sighed and stood up. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s do it.’
NINETEEN
They grabbed the keys from the concierge and hastened down to the underground car park. There was no paperwork to sign. Jansen had taken care of everything. The concierge gave them a Volvo key fob encased in tan leather, roughly the size of a clamshell phone, and directed them to an XC90 SUV parked at the back of the basement parking area. They found the wagon amid a row of Maseratis, Lamborghinis and Tesla Roadsters. Bald took the wheel while Porter tapped open the GPS tracking app on the iPad. There was no ignition key. Bald simply depressed the brake and twisted the engine dial clockwise, towards the START position. The Volvo hummed into life. Thirty seconds later they rolled up the concrete parking ramp and pulled out into traffic in front of the Royal Duna.
The S-Class didn’t have much of a head start. Two minutes, by Porter’s reckoning. Which worked out to seven hundred metres, give or take. He was tracking the flashing red dot on the iPad screen, watching it crawl forward, giving Bald updates. Progress was slow, clearly. They were in the middle of the sightseeing district, the roads choked with open-top tour buses and delivery vans and taxis and mopeds. Wherever Lansbury was going, he wouldn’t be getting there in a hurry.
For the first five hundred metres the distance between the S-Class and the Volvo stayed roughly the same. Most of the inner-city roads operated on a one-way system, meaning there were no obvious shortcuts Bald and Porter could use to close the gap. And all the roads were equally congested. This quarter of the city was one giant traffic jam. They looped counter-clockwise round the square in front of the Royal Duna and headed east, following the same route as the S-Class. Taking them away from the Chain Bridge, towards the city centre. Chinese tour groups hogged the pavements, posing in front of selfie-sticks and pulling their windbreakers tight across their fronts. Budapest was still in the grip of winter. The Danube was granite-grey and choppy. Bare trees lined the pavements like matchsticks. Clouds the colour of gravel pressed low in the sky, threatening to spill more heavy rain over the windswept residents.
Porter traced the flashing red dot on the map. It was still on the move. Which meant that Lansbury hadn’t yet ditched his tracker.
Twenty seconds later the signal stopped.
They inched along Jozsef Attila for another four hundred metres until they came to a standstill. Then Porter saw it. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing at the windscreen. ‘There!’
Bald craned his neck, peering through the gaps in the crowds of pedestrians. Then he caught sight of it too, a hundred metres ahead. The S-Class had pulled over at the side of the road, next to one of the state-licensed tobacco shops with the familiar ‘T’ logo hanging from the window.
As Bald and Porter looked on Lansbury emerged from the shop clutching a pack of cigarettes, hands peeling off the cellophane wrapper like skin from a fruit. He stopped a couple of metres from the S-Class, glanced around. Reached down to his belt. Unhooked something, chucked it into the nearest bin along with the cigarette pack wrapper and foil. Then he clambered back into the waiting vehicle.
‘He’s thrown away the tracker,’ Porter confirmed as the S-Class pulled out into traffic again, a hundred metres ahead of the Volvo. The GPS signal remained stationary, hovering over the location of the bin.
‘Bastard is definitely up to something,’ Bald muttered.
‘The question is, what?’
Bald didn’t reply. He kept his eyes on the road as they continued tailing the S-Class at a safe distance, staying at least eighty metres behind. There was little danger of Lansbury spotting them, Bald reassured himself. The guy would be comfortable now that he’d lost the tracking device, thinking that he was safe. He wouldn’t be looking for a tail. The Volvo was a brand-new rental, so it wouldn’t look familiar to him. And he certainly wouldn’t imagine that his brand-new bodyguards would be shadowing him.
Wherever he’s going, he doesn’t want us to know about it.
They hung a right at the main square at Deák Ferenc, staying five or six cars behind the S-Class at all times. Shuttled south along the bustling main thoroughfare, passing rickety trams and coffee chains and market stalls selling local delicacies and bottles of fruit brandy. They passed brown-brick tenements and futuristic corporate offices, eyesore concrete apartments. There were synagogues and ruin bars, 1920s-style cafes and tanning salons with names like Sexy Brown Solarium. There were no distinct neighbourhoods, as far as Bald could tell. Everything was just kind of mashed together.
Bald glanced around, searching for the waves of migrants the Hungarian prime minister had been banging on about, but he couldn’t see any. Maybe he wasn’t looking hard enough. Or maybe they were going in the wrong direction.
At his side, Porter reached for his false-screen iPhone, punched in the sequence to unlock the encrypted screen and sent a brief message to Strickland’s number. Heading to a meeting across town. We’re following BROKEN RECORD.
There was the usual thirty-second delay before Strickland wrote back. Your orders were to stay with BROKEN RECORD. We did not authorise a pursuit.
No choice, Porter replied. BROKEN RECORD wanted to go alone. Dumped his GPS tracker.
There was an uncomfortably long pause before Strickland finally responded with a terse message. Acknowledged. Have you got audio?
Already taken care of, Porter typed with his one good hand. Planted a listening device on him. Will let you know when BROKEN RECORD arrives at RV.
Strickland wrote, Stay put when you get there. No further action. Understood?
Porter replied, put his phone on the dash and looked over at Bald. ‘What was all that shit about Thacker back there, telling Lansbury he was some great fucking officer? We both know that bloke was a wanker. Everyone hated his guts.’
‘I had to say something complimentary,’ Bald said. ‘A bloke like Lansbury, half of his mates are probably former Ruperts. Let’s just hope the fucker bought it.’
Porter said, ‘You had me fooled, Jock. He was lapping it up.’
Bald tightened his grip on the steering wheel and shook his head. ‘I can’t believe we’re having to blow smoke up this twat’s arse.’
‘As long as it helps to bring him down, who gives a toss?’
They rode south for another quarter of a mile, following the S-Class as it veered west instead of south, heading back in the direction of the Danube. They rolled past some kind of huge indoor market and hit a cantilevered bridge, flanked by statues of falcons resting atop a pair of golden globes. The S-Class took the bridge west across the river, away from the hustle
and dirt and noise of the eastern side of the city, towards the tranquil streets, leafy hillsides and ancient citadels of the old town.
They came off the bridge and hung a quick left, tailing the S-Class past the Gellert spa, taking them away from the major tourist attractions further to the north. Porter stared at the iPad, frowning heavily at the map.
‘Where the fuck is this bloke going?’ he wondered aloud.
‘No idea,’ Bald replied, glancing over at the screen fixed to the dash. ‘But it can’t be far from here, if he’s gonna make that meeting for ten o’clock.’
They stuck close to the S-Class, heading south for another mile, through what Bald felt must be a university district. The roads were narrower and lined with a mixture of old and new apartment blocks. There were hipster cafes and bookshops, bars that probably sold craft beer. Not Bald’s kind of scene. Not his scene at all. He couldn’t understand the whole craft beer thing. In his mind, taste was for poofs. Consumption was key. Specifically, quantity and speed. How much you could drink, and how fast. The more you drank, the more of a man you were. Which was what happened when you grew up in Dundee in the seventies, Bald supposed.
After half a mile the S-Class turned right and carried on through a residential suburb, the streets lined with depressing apartment blocks and antiquated public buildings. Home to the lower-paid government employees and city workers, Bald guessed. Not dilapidated, but not great either. The streets were grimier, the shops more worn. Gentrification was happening, but piecemeal. The skyline to the south was dominated by a huge housing estate; concrete blocks stretching out towards the horizon like giant gravestones. A powerful reminder of the city’s bleak Soviet past.
The S-Class rolled past an Orthodox church and made the next left, arrowing down a leafy side street for a hundred metres before it came to a halt outside a mid-range hotel.
From the outside, the place looked several star-ratings below the Royal Duna. An eight-storey concrete-panelled block, grey and squat, with small dark windows and a smog-stained facade. At some point it had probably looked cutting-edge, but now it just looked sad and dated. A cheap option for out-of-towners and businessmen who needed a place to stay, but didn’t want to pay top whack for somewhere in the city centre. The hotel faced directly out on to the street, towards a small park on the other side of the road. There was a garden terrace to the right of the entrance, Bald noted. Hotel restaurant to the left, looking out over the car park, an ocean of blacktop half-filled with rentals. Bald spotted the name of the hotel spelled out in capital letters atop the roof: HOTEL FLAMINGO.
