by Chris Ryan
‘How come it doesn’t add up?’ Danny said quietly.
All eyes were on him. ‘What do you mean?’ Victoria asked.
‘The bomb was, what, three days ago? Already you’ve got the names and addresses of two suspects. They’re still in the UK, not even lying low. From what I can tell, they might as well be walking round with targets on their chests. If I was one of the most wanted men in the UK, I’d be a bit harder to find than that.’
There was no response. And no eye contact. From any of them.
‘I’m just saying,’ Danny added, ‘are you sure you’ve got the right guys?’
A pause.
‘Yes,’ Victoria said quietly. ‘We’re quite sure we’ve got the right guys.’
‘Good,’ Danny said. ‘Because I’d hate to kill the wrong ones.’
‘What you’ve got to remember,’ Chamberlain butted in, ‘is that these bloody terrorists aren’t quite the master criminals they’d like to believe they are. Not a match for England’s finest, eh, lads?’
‘If it’s all the same to you, I won’t underestimate the enemy.’
An irritated frown crossed Chamberlain’s forehead.
‘What I think Piers is trying to say,’ Buckingham interrupted smoothly, ‘is don’t over-think the whole thing, old sport. We’re on top of the intelligence. All we require of you is to act on it.’
Or to put it another way: shut up and follow your orders. It was the second time in twelve hours that somebody had said something similar to Danny. He could take his orders as well as the next man, and he was quite used to knowing only half the story. Why, then, did he feel so uneasy?
The spooks filed out of the room. Victoria first, dowdy and flustered. Then Chamberlain, with his strange squint and soldier’s gait. And finally Maddox, calm, relaxed, as though he was a vacationing tourist wandering through this tawdry country house for pleasure.
Which left Hugo Buckingham, standing by the fire, waiting for the door to shut, with a small flicker of something approaching satisfaction showing in the corner of his handsome mouth.
Six
Danny, Spud and Buckingham stood alone in the murky room. Buckingham had walked over to the window, where he watched the others climb into their chauffeured cars and, one by one, drive away. There was a thunderclap overhead. A few seconds later the rain started again, suddenly as heavy as it had been the previous day. Buckingham turned his back on the window and looked at them.
‘Is everything clear?’
Spud turned to Danny. ‘Do you get the feeling the grown-ups have fucked off and left us with the office boy?’
Buckingham’s eyes narrowed momentarily, but he quickly recovered himself. ‘We’re all office boys,’ he said. ‘And girls, of course. That’s what intelligence work is these days. Not often that you don’t find us behind a desk. MI6 for me, Thames House for Victoria. Chamberlain has an office at the MoD building in Whitehall and Maddox works out of the American embassy. Seven days a week, twenty hours a day. Hammerstone’s good neutral ground, and out of the way, of course.’
He removed a slip of paper from the top pocket of his jacket, stepped forward and handed it to Danny. It contained a Gmail address and a string of fifteen random digits: a password.
‘Your instructions will be left on that account as a draft message. Once you’ve read the message, delete the draft. Don’t save it, print it out or forward it to anyone. Not foolproof, of course, but as Victoria said, the less contact you have with the security services the better. Only myself and the other three will be monitoring that account, and GCHQ tell me it’s as close as we’ll get to being secure.’
And as close as you’ll get, Danny thought, to keeping your distance from the whole op. Because an anonymous e-mail could come from anyone.
The guys said nothing. They just stared at Buckingham. A flinty look entered his eyes. ‘You don’t like me,’ he said tersely. ‘That’s fine. You don’t have to. But a word to the wise lads.’ He looked over his shoulder at the window through which he had just watched the departing cars. ‘Right now, I’m your best friend.’ He walked over to the door and held it open. ‘Spud, you’ll return to London with your police liaison. Danny, you’re coming with me.’
Spud opened his mouth, clearly about to tell Buckingham where to get off, but Danny put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We’ll RV back at the digs.’ He gave Spud the piece of paper with the e-mail address and password.
Spud wasn’t pleased, but he took the details without comment, shoved them in his pocket and left the room, giving Buckingham a baleful look as he passed. They heard the main door of the house slam shut, then Buckingham held up the keys to his BMW. ‘I’ll drive, shall I?’ he said.
Spud was sitting in the back seat of Fletcher’s police vehicle as they stepped out into the rain. It crunched along the driveway and out of sight. Buckingham put up an umbrella and offered Danny some cover, but Danny simply strode ahead to the waiting Beamer and stood by the passenger door with the rain hammering down on him. By the time Buckingham had let him in, he was soaked.
‘Perk of the job,’ Buckingham said, indicating the leather seats and walnut dashboard of the car. ‘Got to be a few sweeteners, hey? You’re soaking, old sport. Let’s put the heat on, shall we? They say the seat-heaters give you piles, but I think we can risk it.’
They slid away from Hammerstone with the air-con on full blast. Danny watched the receding building in the rear-view mirror. The old country house looked grey and decrepit in the rain.
‘So, old sport,’ Buckingham said. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘There’s a reason for that.’
‘Still seeing . . . what’s her name? . . . Clara?’
‘Not that it’s anything to do with you.’
‘Let us know when you’ve had enough. Quite a filly, that girl. Wouldn’t mind a crack at her myself. May have mentioned that before, of course.’
Danny breathed deeply, but managed to keep his cool. He said nothing. They drove in silence for a couple of minutes. If Buckingham had a reason for getting Danny on his own, he’d no doubt get to it eventually.
‘Bit of a rogue’s gallery back there,’ Buckingham said finally. He gave a studied laugh. ‘What is it they say about an organisation being like a tree full of monkeys? The ones at the top look down and see a lot of smiling faces, the ones at the bottom look up and see a bunch of arseholes?’
‘What are you?’ Danny asked. ‘A smiling face or an arsehole?’
‘I might ask you the same question, Danny Black,’ Buckingham said quietly.
Silence.
‘And anyway,’ Buckingham continued, brighter now. ‘Aren’t we all a bit of both?’ He indicated right and checked his blind spot. ‘What’s your take on Victoria?’ he asked.
‘I don’t have a take on her.’ Which wasn’t quite true. She seemed far too mumsy for a high-level MI5 operative. Like she should be working behind the reception desk of a dental surgery, not running a covert killer group.
‘I report directly to her, of course,’ Buckingham said, breezily continuing the conversation as though Danny hadn’t cut him dead with each comment. ‘Rumour is, she was a bit of a shagger in her day. Can’t see it myself. Still, wouldn’t do for me to speak ill of my boss, eh?’
‘Then don’t.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, old sport. Not quite what she seems, anyway. Bloody good intelligence officer, as far as I can tell. Five years in Moscow in the bad old days and almost a decade in Saudi. Ever been to Riyadh? Lovely place, but a tough intelligence station to run, or so I’m told.’ He paused for a moment. From the corner of his eye, Danny could see Buckingham glance at him, as if judging his reaction. ‘She met her husband out there. Saudi national. Caused a bit of gossip behind her back over at Thames House. Nasty. Not as if having a Muslim husband is a handicap, eh? Sure he’s been thoroughly vetted. Clean as a whistle.’
He paused.
‘Can’t say it hasn’t caused a bi
t of a glass ceiling for her, but that’s the way of the world, I suppose.’
Another pause.
‘Doesn’t help that she went AWOL for six months during her Saudi stint, of course.’
‘What do you mean, AWOL?’ Danny asked, suddenly interested in spite of himself.
‘Exactly that. Off the radar. Claimed a period of depression, said she went of to “find herself”. Nobody ever did discover where. It’s all in her file.’
‘Which you’ve read, of course.’
‘Forewarned is forearmed, old sport. Forewarned is forearmed. And I think we can rest assured that our friend Harrison Maddox is up to speed on all of us. You and me included. Whether he knows exactly what went on in Syria is doubtful, but we all have to have some secrets, don’t we?’
Danny stared at the windscreen wipers flapping against the rain.
‘Don’t think there’s much doubt,’ Buckingham continued, ‘that he takes a rather dim view of Victoria being in charge of the Hammerstone operation.’
‘You think he’d prefer you?’ Danny sneered.
‘Certainly not. Charming fellow, Harrison Maddox, but his contempt for the UK is difficult for him to hide, wouldn’t you say. Not the only one of our American cousins who takes a dim view of our government’s sudden change of heart with respect to supporting the Americans’ interventionist foreign policy.’
‘He should spend some time in a war zone,’ Danny muttered. ‘See what he thinks then.’
‘Ah, you’re preaching to the converted,’ Buckingham sighed theatrically. He seemed suddenly delighted that the two of them had a bit of common ground. ‘Always the way, hey? The men in suits make the pronouncements and the soldiers do the bleeding.’ The barrack-room comment sounded ridiculous on Buckingham’s lips, but he showed no awareness of it. ‘Still, not sure how comfortable I feel about having a Yank calling the shots in what is, after all, a very British affair. Plenty of rumours circulating in the Firm. Not beyond the CIA’s capacity to get into bed with the right sort of terrorists, you know, if it suits their purpose. Keep everyone on their toes, and if the occasional atrocity reminds their allies why they’re fighting a war on terror, well, who’s counting?’
‘You telling me the Yanks blew up Paddington?’ Danny said with a sneer.
‘Of course not. I’m just saying he’s one to watch, that’s all.’
‘I watch everyone,’ Danny said flatly.
‘Bloody good policy, old sport.’ Was Buckingham deliberately misinterpreting Danny’s meaning? Danny couldn’t tell.
They continued to sit in silence. The miles passed, and so did the minutes, but Danny could sense that Buckingham was working up to continue his character assassination of his Hammerstone colleagues. ‘I suppose Piers Chamberlain’s a bit of a legend in your neck of the woods,’ he said finally.
‘You suppose that, do you?’
‘Well . . . rubbing shoulders with the great and the good as he does. He’s a regular visitor at Clarence House, or so I’m told.’
‘And you think an ordinary SAS trooper has wet dreams about becoming a royal flunky?’
Buckingham smiled indulgently at Danny’s sharpness. ‘Seems a bit odd to me that he’s so close to the royal bosom,’ he continued. ‘Keeps the company of some peculiar types.’
Danny didn’t ask what he meant. He knew the explanation was coming at any moment.
‘Not saying they’re right-wing,’ Buckingham said, ‘but they do rather make our friends in UKIP look like card-carrying Marxists. Retired military, mostly. Look up to Chamberlain like he’s some sort of guru. I think they like the fact that he was the scourge of the Mick in Northern Ireland back in the seventies. Loonies, the lot of them. Trouble is, of course, that it’s the loonies you have to watch out for. Chamberlain’s chums have formed a sort of cabal. They’ve been lobbying government to set up a transfer of power to the army in the event of Islamic extremism getting out of control. Not too many people take them very seriously, naturally, but they’re a vocal minority and recent events haven’t exactly harmed their argument.’
‘Get to the point, Buckingham.’
‘No point, old sport. Just chewing the fat. Up to you whether you think Chamberlain’s the kind of fellow you want to be taking orders from, that’s all.’
‘Stop the car,’ Danny told him.
Buckingham blinked. ‘Not really a good time, old sp—’
‘Stop the fucking car.’
Buckingham looked at him: a cold, calculating expression that Danny recognised well. Then he pulled over and turned off the ignition. Rain drummed on the roof of the car, and now that the engine was off, the windscreen was opaque with running water.
‘Why me?’ Danny said.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘There’s a whole regiment full of guys just as well qualified to pull off this job as me and Spud. Better qualified, some of them. So why the hell have you been pulling strings to get us involved?’
The windows were misting up inside. Buckingham stared directly ahead.
‘You should be thanking me for giving you a chance, Black,’ he said. ‘The lads who eliminate these bombers will be showered in glory. And as for Abu Ra’id . . .’
‘Bullshit,’ Danny said. ‘At best, the lads who eliminate these bombers will go back to Hereford until the next time they’re needed to carry out someone else’s dirty work. At worst, you’ll shit on us from a great height like those Military Reaction Force guys who did your dirty work in Northern Ireland. The only people who’ll get showered with glory are you and your Hammerstone chums, and as far as I can tell, you’re sticking the knife into them already. Which is hardly surprising, because that’s what you do.’
Buckingham’s nostrils flared. As he turned to look Danny full in the face, all pretence of friendliness had fallen away. ‘If I were you, Black,’ he breathed, ‘I’d do exactly as I was told. I’d make very, very sure that I carried out this operation to the letter.’
‘Because Hugo Buckingham’s on his way up the slippery pole. And he’s very keen for that glory to be showered all over him. Most people see an atrocity. You see a fucking opportunity.’
‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ Buckingham hissed.
‘Go to hell.’
‘Can you carry out this operation? Quietly, effectively and without any hitches?’ And when Danny didn’t immediately reply: ‘Well, can you?’
Danny did it swiftly, slipping his hand into his jacket, pulling out his handgun and thrusting the barrel against Buckingham’s temple in one swift movement. Camouflaged from the gaze of any passing pedestrians by the rain-sluiced windows, neither man moved for a full thirty seconds. Buckingham’s jugular pulsed. His breathing became shallow.
‘Of course I can,’ Danny whispered. ‘Killing people is easy. It’s keeping them alive that’s the hard bit.’
He nudged his weapon. It made Buckingham visibly start, and close his eyes. ‘Put the bloody gun down,’ he breathed. ‘You’re not such a damn fool that you’re going to shoot me.’
‘Maybe I was a “damn fool” to save your fucking life – several times over.’
Danny lowered the weapon.
Buckingham drew a tremulous breath. ‘I told you earlier on that I was your best friend in all of this, Black. But believe me, I’ve enough dirt on you to make life very, very difficult. You’d better bloody well stay in line, soldier, and remember just who is calling the shots.’
‘The only one calling the shots,’ Danny breathed, ‘is the guy with the gun.’ He sneered as he stowed his weapon. ‘I report to Hammerstone,’ he said. ‘Not to you.’
Buckingham was clutching the steering wheel with one hand, the gear stick with the other. His knuckles were white. He was scared, and that pleased Danny. He opened the door and stepped out into the rain. A busy street. A red London bus passed in the opposite direction, its large wheels trundling through puddles and spraying the almost deserted pavement. To his left, a Middle Eastern food store,
‘The Star of Damascus’, rain sluicing off the canopy protecting its crates of vegetables. Arabic writing on the window, behind which the pale pink and white carcass of a sheep hung from a hook. Above the Star of Damascus was a window. A face looked out. Its features were strange – the eyes slightly too close together, the face itself podgy. Danny remembered what Victoria had said, about the bombers using a Down’s syndrome kid. He felt a pang of sympathy, and an equally strong surge of revulsion. There were no rules for these terrorists. No strategy too low. In that sense, at least, they and Buckingham weren’t so different.
The face above the Star of Damascus disappeared. Danny slammed the car door behind him and hurried off through the rain. He was cold and wet, and didn’t know exactly where he was, but anything was better than being stuck in a moving vehicle, being fed poison by Hugo Buckingham, the most venomous creature he knew.
17.50hrs
Clara stood by a child’s bedside.
She knew he wouldn’t make it. The wounds he had sustained were too severe, the septicaemia too advanced. It was frankly a miracle he had lived this long. He had lost both legs above the knee, and a piece of shrapnel had robbed him of the sight in one eye as well as splintering his right cheekbone. He’d been unconscious since the blast, thank goodness, unaware that he was already an orphan. Here in St Mary’s Hospital, Clara had seen more than a dozen victims die of their injuries. But there was something about this little lad that was too sad. Normally, when children were unconscious, they looked peaceful. But this kid looked like he felt every ounce of the torment he was suffering.
She sat by his bed, holding the thin hand from which a cannula emerged, attached to a saline drip. Not long now, she thought. His breathing had changed. There was fluid on his lungs. The end was close. She could do nothing for him, except be there.
It seemed to Clara that her life had been turned on its head. She had become a doctor to help people. To save lives. But now, wherever she went, innocent people seemed to be dying in their multitudes. Was it something to do with her, she sometimes wondered in the illogical panic of the darkest nights.
