by Chris Ryan
The SUVs trundled through the opening, turned left and roared off into the dense blackness of the star-pricked night.
‘Have they gone?’ asked Strickland.
‘They just left,’ said Porter.
‘This is the plan,’ Strickland said. ‘You need to isolate BROKEN RECORD.’
‘What the fuck for?’
‘We’re going to have to intercept Volkov and his minders. Our assessment is that a coordinated ambush is our best chance of rescuing him. Which means we need to find out where he’s being taken. We think BROKEN RECORD might know where.’
Bald fell silent for a moment, dimly recalling something Lansbury had said in the meeting. Right after Volkov had finished giving his address to the populists.
Get some rest, old boy. Long flight ahead.
Porter said, ‘You’re sure that BROKEN RECORD knows where Volkov is going?’
‘Positive. We’ve been remotely monitoring his iCloud account, using the password we retrieved from the modified phone charger you planted in his room. He sent a message three minutes ago, to an unknown local number. Telling them that the speech was a success and the package would be delivered soon. We think that’s a reference to Volkov.’
‘Might not mean anything,’ Bald speculated. ‘He might not have the details.’
‘BROKEN RECORD knows the FSB agents. He knows Volkov will be getting on a plane. He’s deeply involved. At the very least, he’ll have some idea of Volkov’s ultimate destination.’
‘What do you need us to do?’ asked Porter.
‘You need to find a way to get to BROKEN RECORD immediately. Question him. Get him to spill the beans.’
Bald squinted into the darkness, working through scenarios. ‘It’ll mean blowing our cover.’
Strickland said, ‘Either we find out what he knows, or we lose Volkov. Just make sure the Russians don’t find out what you’re up to. We need to keep them in the dark for as long as possible. If they find out what’s going on, they’ll change plans. And we’ll lose the only chance we have of getting Volkov back.’
‘And if the fucker claims he doesn’t know anything?’
‘We’ll run some checks at our end in the meantime, monitor local flight manifests. See if Volkov’s name crops up on a list somewhere. Our guys are reaching out to GCHQ as well. Something this big, they might have picked up some chatter from the FSB or the Kremlin. Either way, we’ll find out where Volkov is going and when.’
Bald said, ‘What do you want us to do with BROKEN RECORD? Once he spills his guts?’
‘Whatever you want. He’s immaterial now. Volkov is our only concern. But whatever you’re planning to do, make it quick. We don’t have much time. Is that clear?’
Bald glanced at the dash clock. 20.06 hours.
The speech was a success.
Package will be delivered soon.
‘Guys?’ Strickland repeated.
‘Aye,’ Bald said. ‘We understand.’
‘Good. We’ll be in touch.’
She killed the call. The iPhone screen dimmed.
Bald turned to Porter. A trace of mischief on his face. ‘Come on. Let’s give this twat a hard Brexit.’
Porter frowned. ‘How? We can’t exactly go strolling into the meeting.’
‘We don’t need to. We’ll get the cunt to come to us.’
Porter’s frown deepened as he watched Bald whip out his iPhone. He secretly envied this about Jock. His never-ending ability to cook up crafty schemes. Porter felt he had always been a dependable Blade, reliable. A solid marksman, good team player. But he lacked Bald’s ingenuity. The guy had many faults, Porter reflected. He was a bastard and a loose cannon, distrusted by his fellow Blades and despised by the head shed. But there were few lads at Hereford who were as effective in a tight spot as Jock Bald.
He might have faked his death in Russia, thought Porter, but I still respect Bald as an operator. Say what you like, but Jock has got a proper set of brass balls on him.
Bald brought up Lansbury’s personal number and tapped to dial. Porter dabbed down the volume on the iPad, so he wouldn’t hear the echo of his own voice via the challenge coin mic.
The phone rang for several beats before he answered. ‘I told you not to disturb me,’ Lansbury snapped irritably.
Bald put on his best courteous voice. ‘Sir, I’m very sorry but we’ve got a problem.’
‘Can’t it wait? I’m right in the middle of something.’
‘Not really, sir.’
‘What is it?’
‘We’ve got Lord McGinn on the phone,’ Bald said. ‘He just called Porter on a secure line.’
‘Wait, Alan is on the line?’ Lansbury sounded puzzled. ‘Why is he calling your partner’s phone?’
‘Our phones are encrypted,’ Bald explained. ‘For security reasons. Lord McGinn thought it better to call us rather than speak to you directly. He has our numbers from the last job we did for him.’
‘What does he want?’
‘He didn’t go into specifics, sir. He just told us he’s been briefed by one of his contacts in the security services. Thinks there might be a threat to your safety.’
‘A threat?’ The laughter and chatter faded into the background as Lansbury padded away from the celebrations. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘McGinn has heard rumours about an SAS snatch squad, sir. Coming for you.’
Bald heard Lansbury gulp. ‘Jesus.’
‘It’s better if you speak to Lord McGinn yourself, sir. He’s on the phone right now. Unless you want us to come in—’
‘No. Absolutely not.’
Lansbury swore under his breath, sighed heavily.
‘Fine. Keep Alan on hold. Tell him I’ll be out in a minute.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Bald hung up, noticed Porter staring at him. ‘Wait here. Pretend you’re talking on the phone. Soon as I get the principal in the back, we’ll jump him.’
He flipped open the passenger side door on the Volvo and jumped down to the loose gravel. Cold, crisp air filled his lungs as Bald hooked around the front end of the wagon and drew up next to the S-Class. Tibor was still sitting behind the wheel, watching videos on his phone. Bald rapped his knuckles on the glass twice. Tibor looked up, buzzed down the window. Some kind of jaunty folk music spilled out of the car radio.
Tibor blinked at him.
Bald said, ‘I just got off the phone with the principal. He’s going to be at least another two hours. He says you should get yourself a bite to eat from the kitchen.’
Tibor’s far-apart eyes narrowed. ‘I didn’t get call?’
‘The principal is busy. He told us to pass the message on.’ Bald jerked a thumb at the side entrance to the castle. ‘I’d hurry up, if I were you. While there’s still some grub left.’
That got Tibor moving. He killed the radio, unfolded himself from behind the wheel and set off at a quick pace towards the door leading into the castle kitchen.
Thirty seconds later, Lansbury stepped outside.
THIRTY
The British populist emerged from the castle into the biting chill of the night. He paused at the top of the stone steps, waxed jacket pulled tight across his front as he surveyed the driveway. Looked to the west, spotted Bald standing in front of the Volvo and the S-Class twenty-five metres away. Started down the steps and marched briskly over to the wagon, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. As he drew closer Bald sneaked a glance round the driveway, making sure no one else had eyes on them. Most of the other chauffeurs and BG teams were either holed up in the kitchen or inside their cars. A few were sitting in the cars parked around the carriage circle, but Bald reckoned they were too far away to be a problem. The two heavies guarding the front door paid no attention to Lansbury and stared dead ahead, hands resting on the stocks of their MA compact rifles.
Bald took a step forward and met Lansbury a couple of paces ahead of the Volvo. Lansbury glanced quickly at the S-Class before settling his gaze on Bald.
His cheeks were flushed with booze.
‘This had better be worth it,’ he snapped. ‘Give me the phone.’
‘Yes, sir. This way.’ Bald pointed at the Volvo. ‘Porter’s got Lord McGinn on hold. He’s waiting to speak with you.’
Bald led Lansbury round to the rear door on the driver’s side. Took one last look around, popped the door open and gestured for Lansbury to climb inside. Lansbury eased himself into the heated interior of the Volvo, rubbing his hands to warm them up. Porter was sitting up front, phone pressed against his ear, as if he was on hold. Lansbury held out his hand.
‘Let me speak with him,’ he said.
Porter turned around, leaning into the gap between the two front seats. He unglued the phone from his ear, passed it to Lansbury and said, ‘Here you go, sir.’
Lansbury grabbed the handset and looked down at it. There was no live call in progress. Just a black display. The groove between his eyebrows formed into a long V.
‘I don’t understand.’
He was still frowning at the dark screen when Bald climbed in and yanked the door shut.
‘Hit the safety,’ he ordered Porter.
There was a simultaneous clunk as Porter flicked the switch for the child safety locks, sealing Lansbury inside. The latter stared at Bald and Porter, confusion spreading across his tanned face.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Bald said, before turning to Porter. ‘Get us round to the side of the garage, mate.’
Porter mashed the brake and hit the engine start button, revving the engine. Flicked the headlights off and downshifted into Reverse. The Volvo lurched as Porter spun the wheel hard to the left and backed up, reversing from the gravel parking area to the gloomy shadows to the west of the garage, taking them away from the harsh glare of the security lights.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ Lansbury demanded. ‘Let me out of here!’
Bald ignored him. As soon as Porter had brought the Volvo parallel with the garage he killed the engine again.
They were hidden from view. Concealed in the shadows, out of sight of the guards at the castle entrance and the front gate. With the heavily tinted rear windows, no passers-by would be able to see what was going on inside the wagon.
‘Let me out, I said!’ Lansbury yelled. ‘Now!’
Bald silenced him with a dig to the ribs. Zero back lift, a short, sharp blow that knocked the wind out of Lansbury’s lungs. His eyes went wide with shock. He jackknifed, gasping for air, hands pawing at his stomach. Bald shoved Lansbury on to his right side, pinning him horizontally across the middle and rightmost seats while he rifled through the guy’s pockets. He found Lansbury’s iPhone and billfold in his inside jacket pocket. Fished the challenge coin out of his trouser pocket. Lansbury offered no resistance. He was still reeling from the jab to the midriff. The guy was in terrible shape. Probably the only exercise he’d done in the last twenty years was lifting pints of bitter to his lips.
Bald tossed the phone and Salvatore Ferragamo billfold to Porter. He scooped up Porter’s iPhone from the footwell, passed it forward. Grabbed Lansbury by the collar of his jacket and pulled him upright.
‘What . . . the hell are you doing?’ he croaked between snatches of breath.
‘Here’s a clue,’ Bald said.
He took the challenge coin and held it up to Lansbury’s mouth. Lansbury stared at it, uncomprehending.
‘There’s a bug inside this thing,’ Bald explained. ‘We’ve been listening to every word you’ve said in that conference. You and your fucking populist mates.’
Lansbury gaped at the coin. Clamped his mouth shut. His face hardened. ‘No. You’re lying. That’s not possible.’
‘We know about your NATO plot,’ Bald pressed on. ‘We know about the Christian alliance, the shares in the Siberian gold mine. That bullshit story about Volkov being a triple agent. We heard everything.’
The colour plummeted from Lansbury’s face. His skin was white as chalk. He eyeballed the challenge coin. As if he stared at it for long enough, maybe he could make it disappear.
‘It was you,’ he said, looking up at Bald and Porter. ‘This morning. At the meeting. The bug on my collar. Freya didn’t place it there . . . you did!’
‘Aye. That was us.’
Lansbury’s face was ghostly pale for a moment. Then his expression shifted, terror hardening into something closer to outrage.
‘Who are you working for?’
‘Take a wild guess,’ said Porter.
‘Thames House?’
‘Try again.’
‘You’re with MI6?’
Bald nodded. ‘We’ve recorded the whole thing. You understand? Every word you lot said, they’ve got stored on a server in London. They can make as many copies as they want. They click a button, and an audio file will go out to the editor of every media outlet in the country. You won’t just be finished. You’ll be ripped to pieces.’
Lansbury was silent for a beat. His face went through a whole performance. For an instant it looked as if his resolve might crumble. Then he sneered at Bald.
‘MI6 wouldn’t dare release that audio. That would mean admitting that they’ve been spying illegally on a British citizen. My supporters would go mad.’
‘Our bosses might hesitate. But we won’t. Me and Jock have got everything right here on the iPad.’
‘Go ahead. Send it out. You don’t have anything. All you’ve got is a few of us agreeing to back the president’s decision to pull out of NATO.’
Bald scowled at the populist. ‘We’ve got you on tape getting paid by the Russians. That’s fucking treason.’
‘That’s a sweetener. Nothing more.’
‘It’s a fucking bribe. This comes out, your reputation goes down the fucking pan.’
Lansbury glared defiantly at his captors. ‘I sincerely doubt it. You’re going to be overtaken by the news agenda. Twenty-four hours from now, the president’s decision to withdraw from NATO is going to be the major story. The fact that I’m agreeing with Drummond at a minor conference in Hungary is going to be of interest to precisely no one.’
Porter twisted round in his seat to face Lansbury head on, anger pulsing in his guts. He imagined reaching out and clamping a hand around the guy’s neck, choking the life out of him.
‘You’re a traitor,’ he said. ‘You’re stabbing your country in the back for a few shares in some fucking gold mine.’
‘Get off your high horse,’ Lansbury retorted. ‘Everyone knows the old order is dead. NATO is finished. Same as the EU. No one has the appetite to fund these smug liberal institutions anymore, and why should they? All the president is doing is hastening the process.’
‘And wankers like you are helping him along.’
‘I’m doing my part. So what?’
‘You’re selling yourself to the Kremlin,’ Porter said with a snarl. ‘You’re gonna let the Russians invade the Baltics just so you can line your own fucking pockets.’
‘I can’t be held responsible for Russian foreign policy,’ Lansbury replied coolly. ‘If there’s a squabble between President Kolotov and his counterparts in the Baltics, that’s between them. Nothing to do with me.’
‘There’s gonna be fighting. People will die. It’ll make the eastern Ukraine look like a playground scrap.’
‘A small price to pay for the triumph of Christianity. The domination of the Christian world over all others.’
Lansbury glowered at him. Eyes brightly lit, lips curving up at the corners. The look of a man who was absolutely sure that he was on the right side of history, that the ends justified the means. The prick actually believes this shit, thought Porter. He glanced back at the clock on the dash.
20.14 hours.
Remember our orders.
Volkov is our only concern.
Whatever you’re planning to do, make it quick.
He turned back to Lansbury and looked him in the eye.
‘Volkov,’ he said. ‘W
here are they taking him?’
Lansbury shrugged. ‘How the hell should I know? I’m working for Drummond, not the bloody Russians.’
His eyes shifted away, evading Porter’s gaze. Tiny beads of moisture formed on his brow. ‘You’re lying,’ Porter said.
‘I’m not! For Chrissakes, do you really think the Russians would share that information with me? Now let me go!’
‘Tell us. Last chance.’
‘I’m telling you, I don’t bloody know!’
Bald twisted round in his seat. Cocked his head at Porter. ‘Charge up the cigarette lighter, mate.’
Porter thumb-pressed the cigarette lighter receptacle, activating the heating element. Lansbury went wide-eyed.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he demanded.
‘Talk,’ Bald said. ‘Or get burned. Your choice.’
‘You can’t do that. I’ve got rights.’
‘Not in here, you don’t.’
The lighter popped out of the socket. Ready to use.
‘Christ, no.’ Lansbury looked on in horror as Porter removed the lighter from the socket. ‘Please, I’ve told you everything.’
Bald ignored Lansbury’s pleas. He pressed down on the guy with his right arm, pinning him against the rear seats. Lansbury struggled, kicking out wildly in a pathetic attempt to wriggle free. Bald kept him in place while he grabbed hold of the populist’s left hand by the wrist and held it out towards Porter. ‘Fucking do it, mate.’
Porter didn’t need a second invitation. He twisted round in his seat, leaned over and pressed the underside of the cigarette lighter against the palm of Lansbury’s left hand. Lansbury howled in agony as the heated metal burned his soft, doughy flesh. He tried to jerk his hand away but in the confines of the wagon there was nowhere to go. Porter held the lighter against his hand for five long seconds before he pulled it away. Lansbury slumped back on the seat, clutching his blistered hand, tears sliding down his cheeks, whimpering softly. The stench of burnt flesh lingering in the air.
‘Start talking,’ said Bald. ‘Or we’ll toast your balls.’
