The must-read new blockbuster thriller

by Tony Kent

  ‘That’s flattering. But if we could move on to Sergeant Jones, General? We’re keen to begin his debriefing.’

  West did not respond. For a few seconds he was silent. His eyes were fixed on Dempsey but his mind was elsewhere. Finally he let out a deep breath, looked from man to man and then turned his back on both. West walked around his desk to his chair, stopping for a moment to collect a decanter of mahogany liquor and three glasses from a table at the very rear of the room.

  Taking his seat behind his desk, West half-filled all three glasses. With a weary flourish he indicated for Dempsey and Henley to take the two seats across from him. He pushed two of the glasses towards them before reaching out for his own. Within a moment its contents had been swallowed. West did not seem to be drinking for enjoyment. When he finally spoke his voice was quiet.

  ‘I’m afraid that Sergeant Jones remains unavailable for debriefing.’

  Henley’s eyes darted from West to Dempsey. He had been prepared for what West had said. They both had, but they needed their theory confirmed.

  ‘Could you please explain that, General?’ Henley asked. ‘Why is he unavailable?’

  ‘Because he has still not returned to barracks.’ West seemed to struggle with the admission. ‘And he still can’t be contacted.’

  ‘Seems less than usual, doesn’t it, sir?’ This time it was Dempsey who poked West with his question.

  ‘You know it’s bloody unusual, Major!’ West was angry. He probably had been for hours. And now he was no longer hiding it. ‘If Sergeant Jones had followed regimental protocol he would have stayed in London for police debriefing. And he would most certainly have then travelled directly back to barracks, which would mean him reaching here at least three hours ago. The fact he has done neither and has failed to call in to explain his delay means he is no longer obeying protocol. Which leaves only one conclusion.’

  West fell silent. Henley could see that he was struggling with the idea that one of his men could have become a traitor.

  ‘You’re saying your man’s turned over?’

  West’s eyes locked onto Henley.

  ‘Yes, Mr Henley. That’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘You’re not even considering another explanation?’

  ‘This is not civilian life, Mr Henley. My men get on with the job and they follow orders to the letter. Sergeant Jones has not done that, and there is only one possible explanation for that fact.’

  ‘Actually, sir, it might not be that simple.’

  Dempsey’s words cut through the exchange. Both West and Henley fell silent. Henley knew what was coming. West, however, was in the dark.

  Dempsey lifted the manila folder that he had brought from London.

  ‘This is the file you sent me earlier this evening,’ he explained. ‘I’ve read through it four times, sir. Looking for some hint of anything in Jones’s history. But there’s nothing, and for good reason. Sergeant Jones is no traitor, sir, because Sergeant Jones did not step foot in Trafalgar Square today.’

  ‘What?’ West made no attempt to hide his confusion. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Major?’

  Dempsey turned the file so that the text was facing the major general and passed it across the table. West glanced at the front sheet as Dempsey continued.

  ‘Do you see any problem with that page, sir?’

  West did not answer immediately. He took a few more moments to study every inch of the page. Finally he looked up and shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘And my patience is wearing thin. So are you going to enlighten me?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with that picture, sir? You’re sure?’

  ‘I’ve just said that. Now are we going to move on?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. Because if that picture is Sergeant Jones as you say, then Sergeant Jones is not the man who joined Mr Henley’s team today.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s true, General,’ Henley offered. ‘I spent time with the man purporting to be Sergeant Jones in London, and there is no way that the man I met is the man in this file photo.’

  West’s eyes widened, his initial confusion visibly shifting to incredulity.

  Henley could see the realisation sinking in. Could see the pieces falling into place as West sat back in his chair and looked up at the tiled ceiling.

  It was almost a minute before the major general spoke again.

  ‘So Sergeant Jones was seconded to Mr Henley’s team, practically at the last moment,’ he said, as much to himself as to his guests. ‘Yet someone was already in place to step into his shoes, to impersonate him and for some reason to kill one of your agents? Thereby allowing the shooting to take place?’

  ‘In a nutshell, sir.’

  ‘Major, you must realise the connotations of what you’re suggesting?’

  ‘I do. It means that the police officer replaced – a Sergeant Dutton – was somehow made unavailable for service. Dutton may be involved or he may not; we’ll look into that. But whatever the answer, there must be conspirators higher up. Whoever did this knew Sergeant Jones’s identity. They knew early enough to fake his credentials, which they did well enough to fool every security agency we have. They also wanted someone in place – best placed – to make that shot. Sir, we can’t say for sure if the shooter was aiming for Sam Regis but, when you look at it, what other explanation is there?’

  West did not respond. He just stared into space as Dempsey’s theory played out in his mind.

  Henley knew from his own experience what he was witnessing. West was trying – struggling – to undermine a theory that could only damage. He was trying in some way to discredit it. Exactly as Henley would do if he were in West’s place. Dempsey had to be wrong. The shooter had to be Steven Jones. Because West’s bureaucratic, regimented mind – a mind shared by Henley and by anyone promoted to their elevated positions – could handle a rogue soldier. But a conspiracy that reached high enough to manipulate the world’s best security services? One that could put a gunman in place – on the government’s own team of sharpshooters, no less – to ensure an assassination? That was a different story altogether. The immediate future would be easier if Dempsey was wide of the mark.

  ‘There’s just one thing I don’t understand.’ Henley’s voice broke the silence. ‘If this is all true – and it does sound likely – then where is the real Sergeant Jones?’

  Dempsey and West’s eyes met. Each had spent a lifetime in a more dangerous world than Henley. They knew the lengths to which men would go to ensure success. The price some paid for the ambition of others.

  A silent nod from West elected Dempsey to answer.

  ‘Steven Jones is dead, Alex. He was dead from the moment he was put on your team.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘I want to know the last person to have physically seen him and the last person to have spoken to him. Assuming they’re different people.’

  There was a new urgency in West’s voice as he barked into his office telephone. Dempsey could hear someone on the other line but could not make out the words.

  ‘I couldn’t give a shit where the unit is!’ Whatever that someone had said was not well received. ‘Get every bloody helicopter we’ve got out there and locate them. Every last one of them.’

  West slammed down the receiver without another word. He looked across the desk towards Dempsey, then Henley. He had the bearing of a man who was not about to explain himself to either.

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘Now we look at this from a different angle.’ Dempsey’s mind was racing ahead. ‘We won’t know the time frame for Jones’s replacement until we know when he deployed. So let’s look at this from the other end. What do we know about the shooter?’

  Dempsey waited for a contribution.

  ‘We know he had the absolute trust of whoever’s behind this.’

  Henley had decades as an investigator on his resume. Dempsey was not surprised that he spoke first. />
  ‘Right. They did ask a lot from him. Impersonation of Jones, reliable shot, calm under pressure, leave the scene undetected. That’s a lot of trust. But what does it tell us?’

  ‘Nothing one hundred per cent,’ Henley replied. ‘But it reduces the possibilities down to two.’

  ‘Which are what?’

  West’s experience was in warfare, not detection. So this exercise was not playing to his strengths. Dempsey was unsurprised as the major general struggled to keep up.

  ‘That he’s one of their own,’ Henley explained. ‘Or that he’s freelance with one hell of a reputation. Nothing in between would do. Not for that level of trust.’

  ‘And how does that help us?’ asked West. ‘If we don’t know who “they” are, how does it help to know that the shooter is one of their own?’

  ‘Actually, that’s not the possibility with legs.’ Dempsey had already weighed the odds. ‘We can’t discount it, but it’s extremely unlikely that someone with this shooter’s talents would be on a permanent payroll.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ It was Henley’s turn to be confused. ‘He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary.’

  ‘No, but he didn’t have to. Whoever organised this thing, there’s no way they go to all that trouble and don’t use someone with the skills for any situation. We didn’t see a tenth of what this guy was capable of. Who keeps someone like that on the books?’

  ‘Apart from you guys?’

  Dempsey ignored the comment. He looked towards West and waited for his input.

  ‘So it must be an independent?’ West concluded. ‘Where does that leave us?’

  ‘Further forward than you might think, sir.’

  Dempsey was several steps ahead, explaining one finding while simultaneously analysing the next. He felt energised by the progress his own mind was making.

  ‘If the shooter comes with the kind of reputation we’re talking about then it narrows the field. There are only so many guys out there that meet the profile.’

  ‘OK, Major. Perhaps you’re right. But that still leaves a hell of a problem, doesn’t it? The fact that almost every freelancer meeting that profile has never been seen.’

  ‘This one has, sir.’ Dempsey indicated to Henley. ‘Mr Henley’s seen him.’

  ‘I know that. But what use is it if we can’t show Mr Henley a picture of our suspects? With all due respect to him, his contribution is worthless until we’ve caught the bastard.’

  ‘True, sir. Unless we do have a picture.’

  Neither West nor Henley spoke. Dempsey was now far ahead of them.

  ‘Remember the question, sir. “Who keeps someone like that on the books?” Well, Mr Henley’s right. We do.’

  West shot Dempsey an angry glare. When he spoke his tone was clear; he did not like where this was going.

  ‘Are you suggesting one of my men did this? That one of my men was involved in the murder of an SAS sergeant? Not to mention everything that’s followed?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m not.’ Dempsey realised that his answer sounded contradictory. ‘But then not all of us have been your men, have we?’

  Dempsey turned to Henley.

  ‘Alex, what did this guy look like?’

  Henley must have been surprised by the sudden question, but it did not slow him. He closed his eyes and stayed silent. Dempsey could only guess at what he was doing, but it was an educated guess; both men had been trained sharpshooters – Henley for the Metropolitan Police, Dempsey for the SAS – and so Dempsey presumed that they shared the stock sniper’s skills of attention to detail and absolute recall. It was the latter, Dempsey thought, that Henley was utilising now.

  ‘I can’t tell you much about his clothes,’ Henley finally said. His eyes remained tightly shut. ‘Standard operational gear. All looks the same when it’s on. He was tall. Taller than you, Joe. Six foot three, maybe six four. Pretty thin, but with a strong frame. You know, strong square shoulders that belong to a bigger man, but beneath them pretty slim.’

  Dempsey nodded and glanced towards West. So far, so expected.

  ‘What about his hair, Alex? What colour was it?’

  ‘Black. Real black, in fact.’ Henley opened his eyes. ‘Why? What does that mean?’

  ‘Maybe something. I’m not sure yet. Tell me more.’

  Henley closed his eyes again.

  ‘He was pale too. Not unhealthy, just very light-skinned. Maybe it’s what made his hair seem so dark. Or it might have been the hair that made him look so pale. It’s hard to tell.’

  Dempsey had heard enough. He turned to West.

  ‘You really think it’s him?’ West asked.

  ‘It’s him.’

  ‘Who? Who are you talking about?’

  Henley had opened his eyes. It was as if he had missed an entire conversation in a matter of seconds.

  ‘We’ll show you.’ Dempsey indicated towards the computer on West’s desk. ‘Can that thing access extant files as well as live ones, sir?’

  ‘Of course it can. They’re under a different programme heading but it’s all there. Do I need to ask who we’re looking for, Major?’

  The two men shared a grim look before West turned his attention back to his computer. It took West a few minutes, but then he glanced up at Dempsey and nodded; he had found the file. Henley got to his feet. Dempsey did the same. They moved around West’s desk to get a full view of the screen, which was filled by a digitised military jacket.

  At a glance it resembled Steven Jones’s file. On closer inspection it was even more impressive. Piercing blue eyes under jet-black hair stared back at them. A distinctive face. Henley did not need a closer look to be sure. He took one anyway.

  ‘Is it him?’

  Dempsey was standing at Henley’s shoulder. Henley looked up.

  ‘Yeah. That’s him. That’s the man who said he was Sergeant Jones.’

  Dempsey did not respond. Instead his gaze moved back to the screen. It locked on the grainy black-and-white file photo. A face from Dempsey’s past.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Land Rover door slammed hard. The force with which Joshua had swung it shut saw to that. He reached out with a yellow cloth and rubbed the door panel where his ungloved fingers had touched it. Four days of driving the rented 4×4 before it had become a murder weapon made the exercise necessary.

  Joshua’s fingertips stung with the pressure he applied. Hard enough that any prints left from closing the door were gone within five seconds. But he continued for another minute.

  Satisfied, he stepped back, opened the rucksack he had taken from the passenger seat and placed the yellow cloth inside. It was not alone. Twenty-nine more filled the bag’s cavity. All thirty had been used to wipe clean every last inch of the rented vehicle that had crippled Daniel Lawrence’s car. The process had taken Joshua more than ninety minutes. Lucky for him he was in no rush.

  The collision had all but destroyed the Porsche. The damage to the Land Rover had been superficial. Joshua had easily brought it to a controlled stop as he watched Daniel’s car flip into the roadside field. Turning off the headlights, he had waited for the Porsche to come to a rest before getting out.

  The instructions had been simple: follow Daniel from Paddington Green police station and make sure that he never reached home. It went without saying that – whatever means he used to achieve his goal – it had to look like an accident. Daniel’s choice of car had made Joshua’s job easy. The Porsche had all of the advantages in a foot-to-the-floor race, but that was never going to be a factor. What mattered was its size and strength against the Land Rover. In that contest there was only one winner.

  What followed was over in moments. On approaching the smouldering wreck he could see Daniel was still alive. Barely, but barely was enough. The wound to Daniel’s stomach would kill him; decades spent ending lives told Joshua that. But it would not kill him quickly, so Joshua had helped nature along. All it had taken was careful hand placement and an instant of sudden force to break
Daniel’s neck. With his corpse pinned into the wreckage of his mangled car, no one would question what had caused the fatal injury.

  For all of his compulsions, Joshua felt no need to admire his own work. That was something that afflicted deranged amateurs. Joshua was a professional and all too sane. He knew the feel and the look of a dead man; there was no need to check his victim’s pulse for reassurance. Instead he was back behind the wheel in seconds, and back on the road inside of half a minute. It had not been a moment too soon. In the rear-view mirror was the faint flicker of headlights; another car approaching. Without turning on the Land Rover’s own lights he had gunned the accelerator and felt the vehicle launch beneath him.

  The lack of road lights on the country lane had made driving without headlights difficult but there was little choice: Joshua could not allow the car behind to notice him. Instead he put a clear half-mile between himself and the crash site before switching them on. He had not taken the time to inspect the front of the Land Rover but had expected some damage. The shape of both headlight beams indicated that it was not insignificant: the vehicle could not be driven much further without drawing attention.

  Any rental in this price range came with an in-built satellite navigation system, which came in useful now. Just a few quick taps on the machine’s touchscreen accessed the ‘Points of Interest’ menu and the map to the nearest mainline railway hub. A box in the bottom-right corner of the screen stated that Egham station was a three-mile walk, back from where he had just travelled. Virginia Waters station was a mile further, but in the opposite direction. Joshua opted for the longer, safer journey.

  It had taken just one minute more to find a narrow lane – little more than a pathway – that led away from the main road. He followed it for another mile, moving further and further to nowhere. His eyes kept returning to the electronic map as he drove. Memorising his bearings. He stopped only when the satnav could no longer register his location.

  Once stationary, Joshua had climbed out of the car and looked around. There was nothing to see, just as he had hoped. Still, he had spent five more minutes looking for any sign that the lane had been used in the last few days. There was none. The likelihood that he would be interrupted was close to nil.