Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

Strickland answered and said, ‘What’s going on? Have you planted the bugs yet?’

  ‘Not yet. We’ve got a problem.’

  Strickland paused. ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘BROKEN RECORD’s assistant. We found her in our room when we got back to the hotel.’

  Another pause. ‘What was she doing there?’

  ‘Going through our luggage. She found the bugs. Knew what they were for, and all. Recognised the equipment.’

  ‘Shit,’ Strickland hissed. She took a breath, collected herself. Then she said, ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

  Porter gave her a blow-by-blow account. Told her about how Jansen had used the biro technique to break into his holdall. How she had tried to weasel her way out of the situation by accusing them of spying on Lansbury. The way she had hesitated when Bald had offered to put in the call to the principal. Strickland listened mostly in silence, interrupting on a few occasions, asking Porter to repeat exactly what he or Bald or Jansen had said.

  ‘Has she admitted to anything?’ Strickland asked.

  ‘Not yet, but her story doesn’t add up. And how would she know what the bugs looked like?’

  ‘She might have seen them on TV. Lots of spy thrillers have that stuff nowadays, I guess.’

  ‘Not these bugs. Only someone who’s been trained to use them or look for them would know what they were. She’s definitely working for someone,’ Porter said. ‘Unless she’s one of ours?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware. She could be with Five, but I very much doubt it. Too much of a coincidence. She has to be with the Russians.’ A pause. ‘Do we know if she’s spoken to her handler yet?’

  ‘Not as far as we know. She was still going through our kit when we found her. She wouldn’t have had time to make her report.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘In the bathroom. Tied up.’

  ‘Does she know who you really are?’

  ‘We didn’t tell her anything. Said the devices were a routine part of our kit.’

  ‘And she believed you?’

  ‘I’m a Blade, not a fucking mind reader,’ Porter growled. ‘But she definitely suspects something is up.’

  ‘So if we let her go and pretend as if nothing happened, your cover is at risk of being blown.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  Silence. Porter peeled the phone away from his ear and checked to see if the signal had broken or something. It hadn’t. ‘Ma’am? Are you there?’

  Strickland exhaled heavily down the line. ‘How long until BROKEN RECORD is due back at the hotel?’

  Porter glanced at his watch. Eight minutes past eleven in the morning. ‘He’s got an interview with a hack at around one o’clock. Two hours, give or take.’

  ‘Then there’s still time.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You need to get the assistant to talk. Convince her that it’s in her best interests to cooperate with us. If we can get her on our side, we might be able to contain the situation.’

  ‘And if we can’t?’

  ‘Then you’ll need to make her disappear.’

  ‘We’re gonna need leverage,’ Porter said. ‘Whoever she’s working for, they must have some serious dirt on her. She’s not gonna work with us unless we give her a bloody good reason.’

  Strickland was silent for a long beat. ‘Give me an hour,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll get back to you.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  The call ended. Porter listened to the dampened silence on the other end of the line, an invisible band tightening around his chest. He could feel his stress levels building, the minibar calling out to him. Porter clamped his eyes shut and tried to focus on the other voice in his head. The sober voice. Don’t fucking go there, it warned him. Not this time. Not after everything the booze has cost you. You can’t let yourself down in front of Jock.

  He set down his phone on the desk, pulled Bald to one side and quietly recapped what Strickland had just told him. Bald pulled at his chin as he listened.

  ‘What are we supposed to do until Strickland gets back to us?’ he said angrily. ‘Sit here twiddling our thumbs and hope that her boss doesn’t come knocking on the fucking door?’

  ‘We don’t have a choice.’

  ‘Aye, we do. Just get rid of her. Problem solved.’

  ‘Six thinks there might be a cleaner way of fixing it.’

  ‘I don’t give a toss what those bullshit merchants think. That Doris came within a whisker of blowing our cover. If we hadn’t stumbled upon her, she would have given us up by now.’

  Porter shrugged. ‘Those are our orders.’

  ‘What now, then?’

  ‘We wait to hear. Then we’ll talk to her.’

  ‘Assuming she’ll agree to cooperate.’

  ‘We’re not dealing with the head of the FSB here. If she is working with the Russians, she’s a low-level recruit. She’ll crack under the pressure, as long as Strickland comes up with the goods.’

  ‘She will,’ Bald said. ‘That lass won’t let us down. It’s the tossers above her we need to fucking worry about.’

  He dropped into one of the armchairs and grabbed the remote, settling in for the hour-long wait. Porter checked the time again. Ten minutes past eleven. A little over an hour had passed since Lansbury had met with his Russian contacts. Less than two hours until he was due back at the hotel. And Porter and Bald wouldn’t hear back from Vauxhall until midday at the earliest.

  We’re up against the clock now, he thought. If me and Jock survive this scrape, it’ll be by the skin of our teeth.

  They passed the time browsing the English-language news channels, constantly checking their phones for any word from Six. Every so often Porter got up to check on Jansen. The PA had stopped crying now. She lay curled on the marble floor in a foetal position, staring vacantly into space.

  Which was fine with Porter. They didn’t want to be dealing with an emotional wreck. They wanted Jansen afraid but not hysterical. They wanted her to be able to think clearly, to recognise that her best bet was to cooperate with Six.

  Fifty minutes passed. Porter checked his phone for the hundredth time. Nothing. The twenty-four-hour news channels were on loop, repeating the same stories about the G7 summit at Loch Lomond. The draconian security measures, the heaving crowds of protestors gathering around Parliament Square, waiting to greet the US president. He was due to arrive the next morning, the report said. Breakfast with the prime minister, tea with the queen. Then on to the big summit. Some of the protestors were planning to raise an inflatable baby balloon over Westminster, according to the report.

  At four minutes past twelve, Porter’s phone rang. Strickland. He shot out of his chair and answered. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Okay, we might have something,’ Strickland said in her Glaswegian brogue.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘First, the basics. Freya Jansen is a twenty-seven-year-old graduate with a degree in Philosophy from Durham. Father was Conservative MP for St Albans for twelve years, mother a high-ranking civil servant. Freya worked at the Department for International Development for four years after uni, climbed the ranks and left to join BIM as a press officer. She quickly caught Lansbury’s eye and was promoted to his team eight months later. Apparently, she had a reputation among the party recruits as a bit of a wild partygoer. Rumours of recreational drug use, a disciplinary warning from the party leadership.’

  ‘How does any of that help us?’

  ‘It might explain how she got roped into working for the Russians. There might be something in her background they’re using against her.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘She has an older sister. Olivia Sopsworth. Eight-year age difference. Junior partner at a prestigious law firm in Holborn. They’re very close, we understand. They speak almost daily, according to their phone records.’

  ‘Parents?’

  ‘Father died two years ago, bowel cancer. Mother is still alive but has early onset dem
entia. Living in a luxury care home in Chelsea. We’ve sent someone over there to check her out. One of our surveillance officers. He should get there in a few minutes.’

  ‘Does she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Not as far as we can tell. Profiles on Tinder and Match, both dormant. A couple of brief flings. But then we know that BROKEN RECORD likes the women on his team to be single. Dedicated to the job, available twenty-four seven. That sort of thing.’

  Porter clicked his tongue. An intelligent, well-educated young political operator, from a well-to-do family. Jansen probably had her eyes on following her parents into a respectable career in the Westminster bear pit. Getting on Lansbury’s team was maybe the first or second rung on what she imagined would be a glorious career ladder.

  ‘How are we supposed to get her to flip?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ll use the family angle,’ Strickland replied. ‘She loves her mother and sister, so let’s use that against her. Tell Jansen that the safety of her family is under threat unless she agrees to work with us.’

  ‘You reckon that’ll work?’

  ‘It’s our best bet,’ Strickland said.

  He got off the phone, told Strickland he’d discuss it with Bald and then call her back once they had the int. Bald listened quietly as Porter talked him through the plan.

  ‘She might think we’re bluffing,’ Bald argued. ‘She’ll assume that we’re not as nasty as the Russians when it comes to this stuff. Might not take us seriously.’

  Porter looked at him. ‘Do you have a better idea?’

  ‘I might,’ Bald said. ‘That surveillance officer Strickland sent over to the care home, to check on the mother. How long until they get there?’

  Porter thought back to his conversation with Strickland. ‘She said he was on his way. Probably already there now. Why?’

  Bald grinned. ‘I think we can make Jansen talk. First, we need to get in touch with that surveillance officer. Get them to pay a personal visit to the mother.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Listen carefully. Here’s what we’re going to do . . .’

  Eight minutes later, Bald yanked open the bathroom door.

  Jansen was still lying on the floor. Her eyes were heavily bloodshot, her cheeks streaked with dark vein-like blotches of mascara. Bald dropped down beside the PA, snipped off her plasticuffs with a pair of scissors he’d taken from his wash bag. He took Jansen by the arm and hauled her upright, her back resting against the bath panel. Looked her hard in the eye.

  ‘Scream for help,’ he said, ‘pull any shit like that, and we’ll drop you like a bad habit. Got it?’

  Jansen nodded a reply. She got it.

  Bald ripped off the gaffer tape. She gasped as it tore free from her skin, like a drowning person coming up for air. Bald stepped aside, giving Porter space to kneel down beside her. Jansen shifted her weight, rubbing her sore wrists, breathing heavily. Porter unscrewed the cap from a bottle of still water he’d taken from the minibar and offered it to Jansen. She eyed it warily at first. Then she took it and drank thirstily, necking half the bottle. All part of the plan Porter had discussed with Bald. They would go easy on Jansen to begin with. Gentle but firm persuasion would work better than confrontation. Porter had volunteered to take the lead. Bald loomed in the doorway, sinewy arms folded across his chest, ready to step in if Porter needed him.

  They had agreed something else with Strickland. Bald had argued that they couldn’t trust Jansen. Too volatile, too easily exposed. Not someone they could rely on to keep a secret in the longer term. Which turned out to be a genuine concern at Vauxhall as well. Strickland and Moorcroft had the same fear. She had proposed a second part to the plan. The wheels were already turning on the second part, she had said. But they wouldn’t tell Jansen about it just yet. First, they needed her to cooperate.

  Porter replaced the cap, set down the water bottle and said, ‘Listen to me. We’re here to help you. But you’re gonna have to work with us. Starting right now.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know anything,’ Jansen replied lamely.

  ‘We know you’re working for the Russians,’ Porter lied. ‘We know you’ve been helping them to spy on your boss.’

  She looked away, bit her trembling lower lip. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Whatever it is you’ve done, it doesn’t matter. We can protect you.’

  ‘You’re just a pair of bodyguards. You can’t do anything.’

  ‘The people we’re working for can.’

  Jansen snapped her gaze back to Porter. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’re with British intelligence,’ Porter said. ‘MI6.’

  ‘You’re government spies?’ she asked, blinking rapidly. Porter detected a note of scepticism in her voice.

  ‘Not us. We’re the hired muscle. But the people we work for are high up in the security services. And we’re telling you, working with them is your best chance of getting out of this thing intact.’

  She looked away again. ‘It’s not that easy.’

  ‘You’re up to your neck,’ said Porter. ‘There’s no other way out of this that ends well for you. You need to understand that we’re the only ones who can help you right now. If you turn your back on us, you’ll be putting yourself in danger.’

  ‘Not just yourself,’ Bald added. ‘Your sister Olivia and your mum Cynthia. They’ll be at risk as well.’

  Jansen’s eyes went wide with shock. She looked up at Bald, glaring openly at him. ‘How do you know their names?’

  ‘The people we work for know everything about you,’ Porter said matter-of-factly. ‘They know about your sister’s post-natal depression, your mum’s dementia, putting her in a care home. Your history of drug abuse. So you’ve got a decision to make. If you value your family’s safety, you need to tell us what the fuck is going on.’

  Jansen wiped the tears from her eyes and searched Porter’s face. ‘No. You’re lying. MI6 wouldn’t do anything to hurt them.’

  Porter handed the assistant her iPhone. ‘Call your mum’s care home, if you don’t believe us. Ask your mum if she’s had any visitors in the past hour.’

  Jansen looked at the phone as if suspecting a trap. She took it, tapped the code to unlock and brought up her call history. Pressed the entry for Eleanor Court and put the call on loudspeaker. After several loud rings a frail female voice answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  Jansen put on a fake cheery tone. ‘Hi, Mum, it’s me.’

  ‘Freya, darling.’ The voice brightened. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum. Just wanted to see how you’re settling in.’

  ‘Can’t complain, dear.’ The frail voice paused. ‘Is everything okay? You don’t sound very well. Is this about that stomach pain you had the other day? I did tell you to call the GP about that—’

  ‘No, everything’s fine, Mum. How’s your day?’

  ‘Oh, fine. Actually, I just had a visitor drop by.’

  Jansen sat bolt upright. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, a rather charming young man. James. One of your old friends from university. Dashingly handsome, I must say. Is he the mystery man you’ve been telling me about?’

  ‘What?’ Jansen frowned. ‘No, Mum, he’s, uh, just a friend.’

  ‘Well, he was very striking. He told me he lost your number and has been trying to get in touch with you for weeks. Anyway, I gave it to him. I hope that was all right? He did seem such a sweet young man. You should call him.’

  Jansen sat open-mouthed and speechless, colour leaching from her face.

  ‘Dear? Are you still there? Are you sure everything is okay?’

  Jansen snapped out of her trance, cleared her throat. ‘I’m really fine, Mum. Honest. Look, I’ve got to run. I’ll call you tonight.’

  ‘Yes, and do remember to give your friend a call—’

  ‘I will. Bye, Mum.’

  ‘Love you, dear.’

  The line clicked off.

  ‘By the way,’ Bald said, uncrossing
his arms. ‘James will be introducing himself to your sister at her house in Berkhamsted tomorrow. Just so you know.’

  Jansen stared at the faded-to-black display on her phone, wearing a look of numbed terror. Porter set her iPhone down beside the half-empty bottle of water. She looked up at him, her eyes moist with tears.

  ‘Please. Don’t hurt them. They haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘They’ll be fine, Porter said. ‘But you’ve got to work with us here, love. It’s the only way.’

  Jansen looked off towards the tiled wall. Porter could see the struggle playing out on her face. She had two options in front of her, neither of them attractive. Either she sold out the people she had been working for and admitted to her role in a criminal conspiracy. Or she stuck to her line, refused to cooperate and put the lives of her loved ones at risk. In the end, she went for the only possible choice.

  ‘I didn’t mean any of this to happen,’ she said. ‘He told me I didn’t have a choice. He said if I didn’t do it, they’d release the video.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I don’t know his surname. I just knew him as Boris. I met him at the party conference last November. In Torquay.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know. All I know is he had a Russian accent. I met him in a bar in town. First night of the conference. He said he was a journalist from Ukraine, in town to hear what Derek and the other speakers had to say. He was funny, you know. Quirky, not really too macho or anything. He knew how to have a good time.’

  ‘What’s on the tape?’ asked Bald.

  Jansen dropped her eyes to the floor.

  ‘I did some things that night. Things I’m not proud of.’

  ‘Go on,’ Porter said.

  ‘We had a few drinks at the bar. Then we went to a club. Boris introduced me to a friend of his. Alexei. He said he was a businessman from Estonia. We went back to his hotel room, did some coke. Some Ecstasy too. Then everything got fuzzy. The next thing I knew, we were in bed. Together.’

  She fell silent for a moment. Bald and Porter let it play out. Better to let Jansen finish the story, tell it the way she wanted.

  ‘I left the next morning and tried to forget about it. A few days later, I had a new WhatsApp message from Boris. That’s when I saw the video clip. Me, Boris and his friend.’ She wiped tears from her eyes, smudging make-up across her pale face. ‘They threatened to send it to everyone in my address book unless I did what they said. I didn’t have a choice. If I had refused, my career would have been over.’