Global Strike

by Chris Ryan

  Porter shrugged. ‘Nothing surprises me when it comes to those bastards.’

  ‘Join the club. When it comes to hating Vauxhall, I’m a lifetime member.’

  ‘You should order something,’ Porter said. ‘We’re still early.’

  Bald nodded. It would look suspicious if they didn’t order any food or drink while they were waiting for their contact to show up. He took up the chair opposite Porter and browsed the menu. Settled on a glass of orange juice and gave his order to a dark-haired waitress with an impressive rack. Bald ogled her figure as she sauntered off towards the bar.

  ‘One thing I miss about London,’ he said. ‘The tits. Thai women are a little on the small side, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Porter said. ‘Never been.’

  ‘You’re missing out, pal. Big-time.’

  ‘You’re still living in Bangkok, then?’

  ‘Still living like a god, mate.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘Is there any other?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Porter said, thinking of his own problems. He caught Bald glancing at his coffee and grinned. ‘There’s no voddie in that. In case you were wondering.’

  ‘Good,’ Bald replied. ‘Because if there was, I’d have to give you a fucking slap.’

  The two former Blades shared an easy smile. Eight months had passed since they last worked together, leading a team of lads from the Regiment across the border into Syria to seize a vital dam. But Porter and Bald had known each other for much longer than that.

  They’d served alongside one another in 22 SAS, more than twenty years earlier. Back then Porter had been a broken man, drinking heavily while on secondment to Training Wing, the unit in charge of Selection. Bald had been a promising young operator, the youngest guy ever to join the Regiment, with a bright future ahead of him. Both were temporarily assigned to MI5 and MI6 during their careers, hunting down murderous Serbian warlords and dodgy ex-generals.

  But after leaving the Regiment, their lives had taken them in very different directions.

  Bald had gone rogue on the Circuit. He’d got caught up in drug trafficking, blood diamonds. Murder. Until MI6 caught up with him, and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Almost a decade later, he and Porter were now working together again.

  They didn’t always see eye to eye. But they’d saved each other’s bacon more than once over the years, and they had a deep respect for each other in a way only old warriors could understand. Bald had also seen Porter struggle with his addiction, and he’d done more than most to help him get clean. They weren’t like brothers or close friends, thought Bald. More like former teammates from a title-winning football side.

  The waitress returned with Bald’s orange juice, giving him another tantalising preview of her tits. Once she was out of earshot Porter looked over at his mucker and said, ‘Do you have any idea what this is about?’

  ‘None, mate. Whatever it is, they’re keeping their lips sealed tighter than a nun’s arsehole.’

  ‘Could be another Syria op.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Bald, non-committally. ‘One thing’s for sure. They’re definitely not fucking around.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Setting up the meeting so soon. I barely had enough time to pack my bags. They’re keen to get the ball rolling on this one.’

  ‘Which means they’re desperate.’ Bald shrugged. ‘As long as I get paid top whack, I don’t give a toss what the mission is.’

  ‘Your hooker fund running low?’

  ‘Not hookers. Honeymoon fund.’

  Porter almost spat out his coffee. ‘You must be joking.’

  ‘What’s so funny about that, mate?’

  Porter chose not to answer that question. ‘Who’s the lucky woman?’

  ‘Kamlai,’ Bald replied tetchily. ‘She’s a real woman. Not your usual Thai bride. Knows how to make a man happy, like. Soon as this is over, I’m going to marry her.’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  Porter shrugged. ‘Just couldn’t see you ever settling down. You’re not the type to go soft.’

  Bald shot him a look. ‘Who said anything about going soft, you prick? I’m still hard as fuck. Anyway, you’re not one to talk. The sad old cunt who hasn’t had a shag since the Dark Ages.’

  No, Porter thought to himself. Jock definitely hasn’t softened up.

  He thought about coming back with some lame joke, but surprised himself by actually being happy for his old mucker. Bald, the dirtiest bastard who’d ever set foot in the Regiment, getting hitched. The idea seemed ridiculous. But then again, there were no rules about happiness. People found whatever worked for them and just went with it. And if Bald’s version of happiness was a five-foot-nothing Thai bird, who was Porter to judge?

  He smiled. ‘I’d say let’s celebrate with a bottle of bubbly, but I’m still off the drink.’

  ‘Aye. And it had better stay that way,’ Bald replied.

  Twenty seconds later a short, skinny guy in a bland suit swaggered over to their table.

  He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with a prematurely receding hairline and a grey look on his face. Bald immediately made him as an MI6 lackey. Vauxhall was brimming with them these days, he knew. Posh cunts with PhDs who fancied themselves as super-agents. They resented guys like Bald and Porter: the assets who knew the streets, who could handle themselves in a fight. The ones who knew how to tail a suspect properly.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Hairline said, wasting no time on introductions. ‘Mother’s upstairs. She’s waiting for you.’

  ‘About bloody time,’ grumbled Bald.

  Bald and Porter stood up, settled the bill and followed Hairline out of the bar and across the lobby towards the bank of lifts. They rode the lift to the fourth floor, and then Hairline led them down a series of corridors until they arrived outside a door with a brass plaque on it that said, ‘Suite 406’. Hairline knocked twice, then stepped back.

  The door opened and another suit answered the door. He looked broadly the same as Hairline, but older. The hair a little greyer and thinner, the bags under his eyes more prominent, the features a little more worn. The effects of a long-term position with Six. He gestured for Bald and Porter to step inside, with Hairline following close behind.

  They entered a reception room with solid wood floors, art deco furniture and vintage canvas prints of New York City fixed to the walls. A door to the left of the reception led into the bedroom, with another door on the right leading to the bathroom. The windows on the far wall overlooked the bustling thoroughfare along Euston Road.

  A sofa was arranged on one side of a coffee table in the middle of the reception room. There was a wooden breakfast tray on the table with a bunch of coffee cups, a French press, a bottle of sparkling water, plus a selection of croissants and pastries. Two matching grey chairs faced the sofa on the opposite side of the coffee table.

  On the chair on the left sat a smooth-looking man in his late fifties wearing a dark blue suit and a purple waistcoat.

  Nigel Moorcroft was Bald and Porter’s handler at MI6. He looked like the kind of guy who had a lifetime membership at Queen’s. Moorcroft was long and slim, with a full head of immaculate white hair on top of his head. Like a cigarette holder with a tab sticking out of the end. His legs were crossed, revealing a set of pink socks beneath his Savile Row suit. His one nod to ostentation.

  Porter glanced at the person sitting next to Moorcroft.

  Then he stopped dead.

  Found himself looking at a face he hadn’t seen in ten years.

  ELEVEN

  Dominique Tannon stood up to greet the two ex-Blades.

  ‘John, Jock,’ she said, nodding at them in turn. There was a hint of affection in the way she said the first name. Her eyes settled on Porter. ‘Been a while, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Too long, love,’ Porter said.

  Bald was grinning wryly at his side.r />
  Porter’s mind drifted back to a mission they’d carried out, shortly before he’d quit the Regiment.

  Freetown, Sierra Leone. An op to retrieve an ex-SAS major who’d gone missing in the middle of a violent coup. Tannon had been their contact at the British consulate at the time. She’d been trapped with Porter and Bald in the Ambassadors’ hotel during the coup, along with hundreds of terrified expats, while out in the streets an army of bloodthirsty local rebels ran riot.

  Porter had turned to the drink. The situation had been desperate. No one had thought they would make it out of there alive. He’d ended up sharing a bottle of vodka with Tannon one evening. A last drink before the battle. One thing had led to another. Somehow they’d ended up naked, on a bare mattress on the floor of Tannon’s hotel room, while half a mile away hundreds of rebels prepared to lay siege to the hotel.

  Later on, Tannon revealed that she’d been working with MI6. She was their boss at Six for several years after Sierra Leone, before being transferred to counter-intelligence operations. Porter had never seen or heard from her again.

  Now she was standing in front of him.

  He guesstimated Tannon must be in her mid-fifties by now, but she looked a decade younger. She had that healthy runner’s glow to her. Her body fat was probably in the low single digits. The shoulder-length hair was cut back to a soft pixie cut that emphasised her taut jawline, and the single-breasted jacket and trousers she wore clung to her slender frame. Just looking at her made him feel ancient.

  Hard to believe I slept with her once.

  Moorcroft remained in his chair, legs crossed.

  ‘This is a fucking surprise,’ Bald said at last. ‘What is this, Vauxhall’s idea of a school reunion?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort,’ Tannon replied before nodding at Hairline. ‘You may leave us now, Nicholas.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Hairline and the other suit stepped out of the suite, closing the door behind them with a discreet click. Tannon waited until they’d left, then turned to Porter and Bald.

  ‘Please,’ she said, indicating the sofa opposite. ‘Have a seat. Coffee? Water? Tea? Help yourself. You’re both familiar with Nigel, of course.’

  Moorcroft smiled and nodded a greeting at Porter and Bald.

  ‘Guys,’ he said in a fake matey tone, an Etonian trying to pass himself off as one of the boys. ‘Good to see you both.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bald deadpanned. ‘Thrilled to be here. Not like you lot were interrupting my downtime or anything.’

  Porter eased himself down into the sofa next to his mucker while Tannon poured herself a glass of water.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Porter directed the question at Moorcroft, but he didn’t answer. Instead he glanced over at Tannon and spread his hands, as if deferring to her. Which implied that she was the one in charge. And which also told him that Tannon had to be seriously high up the Vauxhall food chain these days. Moorcroft was a senior intelligence officer attached to the General Support Branch, the secretive unit within MI6 that employed current and former Regiment operators to do its dirty work. There weren’t many people above Moorcroft in the organisation. There were even fewer who had been at Six for as long as him.

  Tannon said, ‘I never had the chance to properly thank you both.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Saving my life. Back in Sierra Leone. If it hadn’t been for you two, those rebels would surely have killed me. Along with every other person stuck inside that hotel.’

  ‘Just doing our job, love. Any other Blade would’ve done the same.’

  ‘Maybe. But I’m still grateful for what you did.’ She looked both of them hard in the eye. ‘I wanted you to know that. It’s important.’

  ‘Always happy to kill a few chogie bastards, lass,’ said Bald.

  ‘You’re still at Six, then?’ Porter asked Tannon.

  Tannon gave a terse nod. ‘I work with Nigel and his team.’

  She offered no further explanation, but again Porter had the strong suspicion that regardless of her current job title at MI6, she was the one calling the shots. ‘Dominique will be sitting in on the operation with us, guys,’ Moorcroft said, trying to sound magnanimous. As if he was doing her a favour. ‘Makes a pleasant change from the usual ugly fellows we have here, I think you’ll agree.’

  Tannon glanced sharply at him. Moorcroft, the old Etonian with the attitudes lifted straight out of the British Raj. She smiled, like a tolerant daughter listening to her racist old man.

  ‘Nigel will remain your main point of contact here at GSB,’ she said to Porter and Bald. ‘But there are additional factors that make it a priority case.’

  ‘What’s the op?’ asked Bald.

  ‘Have either of you heard of a man called Charles Street?’

  Bald and Porter exchanged blank looks.

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ Porter said. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Charles is one of ours. Or rather, he used to be.’

  Tannon gestured to Moorcroft. Giving him the floor. Moorcroft uncrossed his legs, the cuffs of his trousers lowering over his bright-pink socks. He reached down into a black leather document bag and removed a thin file. He placed the file down on the coffee table and flipped it open.

  Inside were a couple of blown-up A4 photographs. Porter studied them both closely. The first one showed a middle-aged man with a round, chubby face, dressed in a tuxedo at some kind of posh do. He had his arm around the shoulder of an attractive thirty-something brunette wearing a pearl necklace. The guy was all smiles. He looked like a hedge fund manager at a charity fundraiser. Confident, relaxed. Happy.

  The second snap was taken more recently. Same guy, but the worse for wear. The hair had thinned, the paunch had got bigger. His face was bloated and puffy. In place of the tux he wore a jacket that barely stretched across his front. The hedge fund manager, five minutes after the sub-prime mortgage market had crashed.

  ‘Charles Street was one of our best field agents,’ Moorcroft said. ‘He joined the service after graduating from Merton College, Oxford in 1988. Charles specialised in Eurasian studies and quickly made a name for himself as an authority on all things Russian. Transferred to Moscow in the early nineties, shortly after the collapse of the Soviet Union.’

  ‘Charles was in charge of Six’s Russian operations throughout the Nineties,’ Tannon added. ‘It was a vital job. No one knew who was in charge, which way things would go. The situation on the ground was chaotic. We relied extensively on Charles for intelligence. He built up a wide network of contacts inside Russia. Criminals, oligarchs, politicians, FSB agents. Nothing happened in Moscow without Charles knowing about it. He became invaluable to us, basically.’

  ‘You said he was one of your best,’ Porter pointed out.

  ‘Correct,’ Tannon replied.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘What happens to every man, at one time or another. He got caught with his pants down.’

  ‘Street was sleeping with an asset, old bean,’ Moorcroft cut in. ‘Daria Komova. Wife of a Kremlin official.’

  ‘Hard to resist them Russian birds,’ Bald said with a grin. ‘They’ve got proper stamina, like.’

  Tannon shot Bald a disgusted look. ‘Two agents were killed shortly after Charles began his affair with the Komova woman. There were suspicions he may have passed on information that compromised the agents.’

  ‘You think Street sold them out?’ asked Porter.

  ‘Nothing was proven. But at the very least, he was guilty of being reckless.’

  ‘At least he got a good shag out of it,’ said Bald.

  Porter said, ‘What has any of this got to do with us?’

  Moorcroft glanced at Tannon before replying. ‘After he left the security services, Street went private. He did work for various multinationals and government agencies, briefing them on the lay of the land in Russia. Corruption, that sort of thing. His last job was in DC. Producing reports for a security firm called Varang
ian Risk Assessment.’

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have. They’re minuscule. We’re talking two guys in a broom cupboard.’

  ‘Bit of a comedown for one of your lot, that,’ Bald commented.

  ‘It’s all Street could get, old bean.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Moorcroft spread his hands. ‘Charles has been out of the game for a long time now. Twelve years. That’s practically an epoch in intelligence terms. He’s yesterday’s news.’

  ‘Besides,’ Tannon added, ‘Charles doesn’t have many contacts left. No one wants to buy what he’s selling. There are even rumours he’s taken to inventing claims, to help sell his reports.’

  Porter shook his head. ‘So this Street bloke was making stuff up for some two-bob outfit in Washington. What the fuck does that have to do with us?’

  Tannon and Moorcroft swapped a look. Neither of them said anything for a beat. Then Tannon cleared her throat.

  ‘Six days ago, Charles walked into the British embassy in Washington, DC and met with one of our officers working under diplomatic cover there. Terry Cooper.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ Bald put in. ‘He briefed us on a few ops while we were at Bagram, back in the day. Dresses like he’s off to visit the Queen for afternoon tea.’

  ‘That’s the chap,’ Moorcroft said.

  ‘What was the meeting about?’

  Tannon said, ‘Charles said he’d found something while putting together his latest report. Something big. He said it was too important to take to Varangian. Charles wanted to get Cooper’s take on it.’

  ‘And he trusted this other guy, Cooper?’

  ‘They’re old friends. Cooper and Street go way back. They joined Vauxhall at roughly the same time and started out together as field agents in Washington. They’ve been close ever since.’

  Porter nodded, visualising the scene. Two young agents, setting out on their new careers in the security services, the exhilaration and danger of operating abroad. Looking out for each other, watching each other’s backs. A bond like that didn’t break easily. If Street uncovered something big, his first port of call would surely be his old mate.