by Chris Ryan
Jacob shook his head and rested the weapon carefully on the floor. ‘Shut up and let me look.’
From another case he selected a bipod and a telescopic sight, before turning his attention to the handguns. There were eight or nine to choose from; he felt most comfortable with a Sig 226, a Regiment stalwart. He added this to his stash, then examined the rounds. 7.82s for the Armalite. Enough to go through body armour and still make a fucking big hole. They came in sleek boxes of ten, about twice the size of a cigarette packet. The AR30 had a five-round magazine. Jacob took two boxes. Twenty rounds. Enough for a test fire to zero the weapon in; and enough for the op. ‘Match rounds,’ the dealer said. ‘Very good, very…’ He fished for a word. ‘Accurate.’
A box of.357s for the Sig and Jacob was done. He turned round to the seedy arms dealer. ‘How much?’
The guy looked like he was plucking a figure out of thin air. ‘Three thousand,’ he rasped, before flashing another of his unpleasant grins. He folded his arms.
Jacob knew he was being ripped off, but he didn’t care. He pulled out his wallet, peeled off the notes and threw them dismissively on to the couch. ‘I need a bag,’ he said.
The dealer scooped up the money. In the corner the woman stirred. She looked over at them, bored, before seeming to notice Jacob. Something lit up in her face. ‘Salut…’ she said, pathetically trying to make her rasping, addled voice sound seductive. She patted down her clothes and found a cigarette. ‘As-tu du feu?’
Jacob turned away. ‘The bag,’ he repeated. He didn’t want to stay in this dump any longer than he had to. The dealer disappeared to find something, while Jacob stripped down the Armalite. Minutes later he was walking back down the stairwell, the dealer’s insincere ‘Enchanté’ ringing in his ears and the weapons stashed in an old canvas holdall. On the ground floor, some youths had congregated. They had a lairiness about them, and gave Jacob the eye; but they soon noticed the canvas bag and backed off. Clearly they knew why strangers arrived in this building, and what they were carrying when they left.
Jacob stowed the weapons in the boot of the Laguna, climbed into the driving seat and got the hell out of there. He had a long journey ahead of him and he needed to get started.
Gabriel Bland walked quickly, Toby Brookes trotting behind.
Bland had never been to this interrogation centre, a deserted farmhouse in the middle of the Hampshire countryside. It had a well-protected basement where matters were discussed that would never make it on to The Archers. Better all round for him not to visit, though he had made use of plenty of the information that had been extracted here by various means – some of them legal, others decidedly not. Today, however, he had no time for coyness.
‘I want to know everything he’s said,’ Bland told Brookes as they walked through the farmyard, past a faceless security guard and into the house proper. ‘Miss nothing out, Toby.’
‘Redman broke into his house, sir. Tortured him.’
Bland stopped and looked at Brookes, his eyes flashing dangerously. When he spoke, it was in an emphatic whisper. ‘How, Toby?’
Brookes glanced at the security guard, clearly embarrassed by his boss’s rebuke. ‘Removed his fingers, sir. Two of them.’
Bland showed no sign of shock.
‘Seems like Dolohov sang like a canary, sir. Still singing. I guess he doesn’t have the stomach for any more interrogation. That and the fact that we’ve hinted that if he plays ball, we won’t send him back to Moscow.’
Bland didn’t bother to remark on how unlikely that was. ‘Go on,’ he instructed, allowing Brookes to lead the way through the farmhouse kitchen and down a set of cellar steps into the basement. He listened as Brookes detailed what he knew about Dolohov, an intricate story of assassinations and intrigue, with Jacob Redman at the heart of things. The meeting at Piccadilly Circus two days from now.
They walked down a long corridor with a concrete floor and uniform doors on either side. ‘One other thing, sir,’ said Brookes. ‘Dolohov told Sam Redman that he thinks one of the red-light runners has been activated to carry out a hit. Major political figure. No details on who or when, but we’ll get our inquisitors to sweat it out of him.’
Bland stopped in his tracks for a second time. He blinked and looked at Brookes – who sensed that he had once again said the wrong thing – with evident exasperation. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
Brookes kept quiet, like a schoolboy receiving a telling off.
‘Listen carefully.’ Bland pronounced his words slowly, as if to a child. ‘I want increased security for all members of the Cabinet. Special forces bodyguard assigned to the PM. Alert COBRA and tell them we take this threat extremely seriously. Level 1. Cross reference this information with any other intelligence chatter. Have you got that, Toby, or do I need to repeat myself?’
‘No, sir. Now, sir?’
‘Show me where he is first.’
They walked to the end of the corridor, then turned right. On their left-hand side a pane of glass looked into a room. Next to it was a door above which a red light was illuminated. ‘One-way glass, sir. He can’t see you.’
Bland nodded and Brookes disappeared to make the calls, leaving his boss alone to stare into the room. It was sparse. Just a table and two chairs. At one of them sat a man. His head nodded, as though he kept falling asleep and awakening himself at the last moment; his hands were palm down on the table. They were heavily bandaged.
Brookes returned, a little red-faced and out of breath. ‘All done, sir.’
‘Good,’ Bland replied. His previous frustration had left him and now he felt strangely pensive. ‘Do you believe him, Toby?’
Toby Brookes hesitated.
‘I, ah… I only ask,’ Bland continued, ‘because he gave you a great deal of information in a very short amount of time and with almost no, ah… persuasion. Does that not strike you as odd?’
‘Redman cut two of his fingers off, sir. Cauterised the wounds with a blow torch. Tore off a fingernail. God knows what else he threatened. If someone did that to me, I don’t think I’d be in the mood to play games.’
‘Indeed not,’ Bland murmured, still not taking his eyes of Dolohov. ‘Indeed not.’ His voice trailed off. ‘To think,’ he resumed suddenly, ‘this man has been working under our very noses for all these years.’
‘He hardly looks like an assassin, sir.’
Bland nodded slowly. ‘You’re too young to remember the Cold War, Toby. It was a lesson well learned in those days that the person you were looking for was likely to be the last person you expected. The char ladies. The postman.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘The Cold War is supposed to be a distant memory,’ he said. ‘But you know, Toby? Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I really do wonder.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brookes said, obviously uncomfortable with his boss’s moment of reflection, looking like he didn’t know whether to stay or go.
They continued to stand in silence, still looking at the nodding foreigner.
‘I find myself,’ Bland mused, ‘in the curious position of having to readjust my opinion of Sam Redman. If it weren’t for him, we’d still be groping in the dark. Speaking of which…’ He looked hopefully at Brookes.
Brookes shook his head. ‘No sign of him, sir. The SBS made chase, but he got away. We’ve got eyes out in Hereford and Clare Corbett is still being trailed, but I don’t hold out much hope. He just seemed to vanish.’
‘Nobody just vanishes, Toby,’ said Bland angrily. ‘I think we can safely say where he will be in two nights’ time.’
‘Piccadilly Circus, sir?’
‘Piccadilly Circus, sir. Along with Mr Dolohov, ourselves and, of course, Jacob Redman. It sounds to me like quite a party.’ He continued to gaze through the one-way glass at Dolohov.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Jacob Redman has to enter the country somehow. No doubt he will have a false passport. You are sure that his photograph has been disseminated to all the ports?’
‘Quite sure, sir.’
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Bland sniffed. ‘Then let’s hope our immigration officials are feeling alert.’ He bit his lower lip. ‘I think I’d like to have a little chat with our friend Dolohov, as he’s feeling so compliant. I’ve been playing cat and mouse with the FSB for some time now. I’m absolutely positive that we’ll find plenty to talk about, aren’t you? And in the meantime, Toby…’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘In the meantime, I want to make sure everything is done to catch up with these infuriating brothers. They are running rings round us and it’s becoming embarrassing, not to mention dangerous. Find Sam Redman, Toby. And I want his brother the moment he sets foot on UK soil.’
*
It took ten hours hard driving up the autoroute to reach the bland flatness of northern France. At one point Jacob took a detour and drove off into the middle of nowhere. In a deserted field, far from any sign of habitation, he test-fired the Armalite, zeroing it in to his eye. Thanks to the suppressor, the weapon barely even disturbed the birds in the trees. Back on the autoroute, he paid for his petrol and tolls with cash; when he pulled off the motorway into some faceless French town to buy a sturdy rucksack, a high-quality windproof Goretex jacket and waterproof trousers from a camping shop, plus a pair of heavy-duty lopping shears from a DIY place, he paid cash for them too. It raised an eyebrow or two in the camping shop, but that was better than leaving an electronic trail with Edward Rucker’s credit cards, no matter how safe he believed the identity to be.
Night had fallen by the time he started seeing signposts for Boulogne. He eased off the accelerator. Nothing was going to happen before midnight. He had a few hours to kill.
He headed for the centre of town. Parking up outside a small épicerie he bought bananas and chocolate for energy, as well as water. Not much. Just enough to see him through till morning. Back in the vehicle he ate ravenously, sank a litre of water, then drove off. He followed signs for the marina and it only took him minutes to arrive.
There were hundreds of boats here. Yachts, motorboats, some of them old, some of them expensively new. Jacob parked up, shoved his hands in his pockets and – with the air of a tourist enjoying a late evening walk, while ogling at the pastimes of the idle rich – he headed down into the throng of vessels. The salty air was filled with the sound of halyards clattering against their masts – a good sound because it meant there was a decent wind; lights glowed from a nearby clubhouse, reflecting on the shimmering water; there were very few people about and those that were nodded at Jacob in a friendly, comradely way. He felt relieved that he had cleaned himself up before leaving Moscow. Had he looked a state among these well-heeled boat owners, he’d have stuck out; but in his Goretex he felt he fitted right in. He nodded back. In another life and under other circumstances, this would have all the hallmarks of a relaxing holiday stroll.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
The boardwalks extended a good fifty metres out into the bay. Jacob sauntered along them, but as he did he examined each vessel he passed. There were plenty of expensive yachts moored here – sleek, white beasts that were no doubt more comfortable inside than most people’s homes. They were no good to Jacob. Too difficult to steal. He needed something small, but robust. Something with an outboard, but also with sails – the chances of there being enough fuel on board were small and he didn’t want to alert himself to the port authorities by carrying canisters of diesel around when he was an unknown face.
Ignoring a sign warning members of the public off continuing along the boardwalk and stepping over a metal chain acting as a feeble cordon, Jacob eventually found his baby. It was the polar opposite to the grand yachts he had seen elsewhere: an Enterprise, the kind of thing a kid could sail in the right conditions. The chances of this vessel having been fitted with some kind of tracking device by a wealthy, paranoid owner were slim. But as far as he could tell, it looked seaworthy, and Jacob had a better chance of handling this vessel than something bigger and more complicated. Most importantly, the boat was already rigged, the sail tied to the boom and protected from the elements by a thick blue canvas. The centreboard lay in the hull, as did the rudder and tiller; and there was a small outboard motor. This little boat was far from glamorous, but it was well suited to Jacob’s needs.
He turned, strolled back along the boardwalk and returned to his car. A quick look at his watch: 22.38 hrs. He would wait till 01.00 when there were fewer people to see him go about his business. Then he would make his move.
He sat. He thought about the journey to come. It would be tough. Maybe he should have done it another way. Travelled under the tunnel with the illegal immigrants. Paid a lorry driver to hide him in the back of his vehicle. He shook his head. No. Too dangerous to leave things to the incompetence of others. He needed to get entry into the UK by himself. By sea was the only method.
And then? What?
He thought about Sam and the urgent look on his face.
He thought about Sam.
Time passed.
A knock on the window. Jacob tensed. He looked out. A policeman. ‘Défense de stationner ici.’ No parking. He looked at his watch. Gone midnight. No point arousing anyone’s suspicion for the sake of a good parking spot. He nodded at the cop and started the engine. Round the corner he found a better place to park. No streetlights.
He continued to wait.
12.58. Jacob stepped outside with his rucksack containing the hired GPS unit, the garden lopping shears and a bottle of water. Opening the boot his hands groped for the weapons bag. It was heavy. He felt the muscles in his arm tense as he lifted it from the boot and locked the car. The bag firmly in his hand, he walked back towards the marina.
The halyards were still tinkling, but there was nobody around now. A reassuring breeze carried the sound of a car ferry from nearby Calais. Jacob stepped confidently along the boardwalk until he reached his boat. He stashed his gear in the hull, then took the lopping shears and went to work on the small chain that moored the boat to the pier. They cut through the metal without much problem. The boat was free in under a minute.
Jacob started the outboard motor with a tug of the starter cord; it purred easily into life. The boat nudged its neighbour as he moved it out, but before long he was heading inconspicuously towards the port entrance. Two green lights up ahead indicated that the exit was clear. Jacob held his course and directed the vessel out into open sea. It was suddenly much colder here and Jacob was glad of his wet-weather gear. Bringing the boat momentarily to a halt, he grabbed his rucksack and pulled out the GPS unit, before altering the scale on the screen so that the coastlines of both France and England were visible and he himself was a small green dot between the two. Forward throttle and he was heading north again.
There were no lights on the boat, but even if there had been he wouldn’t have turned them on, preferring to benefit from the cover of darkness. The swell of the sea itself was illuminated only by the ripple of the moonlight; in the distance he could see the glow of cross-channel ferries and other fishing traffic. He concentrated on keeping clear of them and heading as straight as possible into the impenetrable darkness of the ocean and towards the south coast of England.
The fuel lasted for half an hour before the engine spluttered and stopped, leaving the vessel to bob impotently in the middle of the sea. The swell was bigger here; Jacob’s clothes were wet from the spray as it lapped against the side. The GPS indicated he’d travelled a third of the distance in that time. More than he’d hoped; but now it was time to sail. It had been a long time since the Regiment had given him his Yachtmaster training and it had come in handy a few times since then. Never in a million years would he have thought he’d use his knowledge for purposes such as this; but times had changed and Jacob had changed with them.
His fingers were cold out here. Cold and numb. He detached the outboard motor and pulled it into the boat. Untying the canvas from round the boom was a slow business. When it was off he folded it neatly and stowed it in the hull, weighted do
wn under the weapons bag, then turned his attention to the main sail. It was wound tightly round the boom and tied with a sturdy cord. Jacob unwound it carefully: a rip in the main sail and it would be a long swim back to Boulogne. He pulled on the halyard and his fingers felt for the cleat, a small metallic U with a screw that closed up the open end. His cold fingers grappled with that tiny screw; once it was finally off, he threaded the cleat through the ring at the top of the mainsail, reattached the screw and prepared to hoist the sail.
Jacob felt for the wind. He was square to it. The moment he hoisted the sail it would billow up and the vessel would start moving. He needed to prepare everything before that happened. He attached the rudder to the back of the boat, fixed the tiller then slid the centreboard through the hull. A quick check of the weapons bag, which he stowed underneath a bench at the fore end of the boat; then a good swig of water. He relieved himself over the side, checked everything was okay with his GPS, then prepared to sail.
He tugged hard on the halyard and braced himself. The sail slid easily up the mast and started flapping in the wind. Grabbing the mainsheet – a thick rope that was now flapping around in the hull – he tugged. The sail billowed and filled with wind. Almost immediately he felt a crash of spray as the boat lurched forward and slammed into the swell of the sea. With his other hand he grabbed the tiller and held the rudder square to the vessel. The GPS was in his lap. The boat had turned slightly to the west, so he pulled the tiller and readjusted the sail so that he was heading north.
He was already soaked, so the spray didn’t bother him. It was cold out here at sea, but he was concentrating too much on manoeuvring the boat to feel uncomfortable. He needed to keep the thing steady. He needed to keep her on course. He needed to keep her upright.
Jacob Redman put all other thoughts from his head as he set his jaw and his course. With nothing around him but darkness, it was impossible to sense how quickly he was moving. A fair rate, he deduced, from the sound of the wind screaming in the sails and the tilt of the boat. Occasionally there was a gust; whenever that happened, Jacob spilled some wind by letting out the mainsheet a little until the gust had passed. He kept half an eye on the GPS unit. Slowly the little green dot grew closer to the northern shoreline.
