Bad Soldier

by Chris Ryan

  Danny nodded. Silently, he told himself that Hammond wouldn’t have given that instruction if he knew anything about Clara and Rose being abducted. Good.

  ‘You’ve left me a fucking mess to sort out,’ the ops officer continued. ‘If the security services like your information there’s a chance – a chance, mind you – that you’ll have a job after Christmas. If not . . .’ He left it hanging. ‘Now get out of here.’

  Danny and Spud stood up.

  ‘Black,’ Hammond said. ‘Is there anything you’re not telling me?’

  Danny paused.

  ‘No, boss,’ he said.

  ‘Spud?’

  ‘Nothing, boss.’

  They made to leave the room. But as Danny’s fingers touched the doorknob, he stopped and turned.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Any news of Tony?’

  Hammond gave him an impassive stare. ‘What is he, your best buddy all of a sudden?’

  ‘I just need to know what to expect, next time I see him.’

  Hammond stood up. ‘Looks like there’s some kind of love-in between him and Yellow Seven. The palace have requested that Tony be assigned to his CT team. I’m fighting it – we don’t have the resources – but for now he’s cosying up with the royals.’

  ‘Sandringham?’ Danny asked.

  ‘What is it, Black, you thinking of sending him a Christmas card?’ And when Danny didn’t reply: ‘Yes, Sandringham. Now get the fuck out of here, I’ve got work to do.’

  Danny and Spud left, closing the door quietly behind them.

  ‘What now?’ Spud hissed as they walked back along the corridor, their footsteps echoing as they went. ‘We go home like Hammond said? Sit and play with our dicks all Christmas?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then what do we do? Where are we going?’

  ‘To the armoury.’

  Spud closed his eyes. ‘Jesus Christ, Danny,’ he breathed.

  Dusk was falling as they crossed to the separate building that was the Regiment armoury. With Credenhill all but empty, Danny knew there was little chance that the armourer would be there. Having taken a detour to their bunk room to change into the civvies they’d left here before leaving for the op on the migrant boat, and to fetch a sturdy sports bag, he and Spud loitered in the shadow of B Squadron hangar all the same, keeping eyes on the armoury building for a full five minutes to check there was no movement of personnel in and out of it before making their approach.

  Access to the armoury required a six-digit code on a numerical keypad by the main door. Danny tapped it in, and the heavy door clicked open. They entered quietly.

  The familiar smell of gun grease and cordite hit Danny’s senses. He moved quickly to the rack that ordinarily housed his personal rifle. The weapon had been returned since they got to Credenhill. Danny made to take it, but then stopped before his fingers touched the gunmetal. If anyone noticed that his and Spud’s personal weapons were missing, questions would be asked. Better to take a couple of anonymous rifles. They would have the opportunity to zero the sights before the weapons were needed.

  That was not all they took. Suppressors. Handguns. Ammunition. Laser sights. Covert radio equipment. Danny had a very specific shopping list, and he packed it all carefully into the sports bag, first stripping down the rifles into their constituent parts so they would fit. The chances of any of this stuff being missed this side of Christmas were slim. Spud hung at the doorway, nervously scoping the exterior for any sign of movement.

  ‘We should go back to Hammond,’ he said finally, as Danny zipped up the bag and lifted it easily, despite its weight. ‘Tell him everything. Mucker, if the hit’s going to be on the royals on Christmas morning, they’ll need a whole bunch of shooters. The chances of just two of us stopping them are tiny. It’ll be a fucking JFK moment.’

  ‘I don’t care about the royals,’ Danny said, his voice sounding bleak even to himself. ‘I just care about my kid. If you don’t want to come, say the word, I’ll go it alone.’

  For a moment, Danny thought Spud was going to take him up on the offer. But Spud shook his head. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said.

  Danny’s BMW was one of the few vehicles parked up in the Credenhill car park. It beeped loudly as Danny pressed the button on his key fob, and its hazard lights flashed, illuminating the two SAS men as they approached. Danny stowed the sports bag carefully in the boot. A minute later, the MoD policeman at the camp entrance was waving them out of base. Danny floored the accelerator, and could sense Spud’s eyes on the speedo. ‘Take it easy, eh?’ Spud said. ‘Let’s not get pulled over tonight.’

  Danny barely heard him. ‘I’m going to drop you off at a car hire place,’ he said. ‘Get a vehicle, meet back at mine. I don’t want to use this car.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘If they find out we’ve gone AWOL, they’ll try to track us using this numberplate. I don’t want anyone to know where we’ve gone.’

  Spud nodded, and stared straight ahead.

  Danny walked alone from room to gloomy room in his ground-floor flat. He was wearing a long coat. It was a suitable garment for hiding an assault rifle. He felt like he was reading the story of Clara and Rose’s abduction. In his bedroom, the bed was unmade. There was still an indentation in the pillow on the side where Clara slept. On the same side of the bed was Rose’s Moses basket. The blanket Clara used to swaddle the baby was still there. In the sitting room, a cup lay on its side on the carpet, next to the stain its contents had made as it spilled. There was Clara’s phone, smashed. On the mirror above the fireplace, a narrow spatter of blood.

  Almost on autopilot he opened a wooden box on the mantelpiece and removed a wad of notes – an emergency fund he always kept there – and shoved them in his back pocket. Then he stood in silence. He expected to feel anger. Determination. But he felt something else. Sickness. Dizziness. That damn image of his daughter, with her bleeding eye, kept playing in his head. Making him lose his focus. He looked at his hand. It was shaking, and for a moment he thought he might vomit.

  He mastered it. Tried to quell the frustration. He wanted to act now, this very minute. But he needed patience.

  He closed his eyes and drew a deep, tremulous breath. How long since he’d slept? Apart from a couple of hours’ shut-eye on the flight back from Iraq, days. He couldn’t let Spud – or anyone – see him like this.

  He had an old laptop. It was in its usual place, shoved under the sofa. He powered it up and got online. Then he navigated to the website for the Sandringham Estate. One more click and he was looking at a colourfully drawn plan of the estate, clearly designed for tourists. The North Garden. The West Lawns. The Visitor Centre. Not that the public would be allowed on to the estate at this time of year, when the royals were in residence. He noted the position of the main gates on the northern edge of the estate, and another set on the south-eastern perimeter. He tried to identify which part of the estate would be set aside for Tony and any other security personnel. Either the eastern wing of the main building, or the separate group of buildings by the south-eastern gate. Either way, that gate would be closest to where Tony would be sleeping, if he was on the estate. A strategy began to form in Danny’s mind. He shut down the computer and gathered up the power cable, the map already burned indelibly on his mind.

  The doorbell rang. It was Spud. ‘Christ, mate, you look like death warmed up.’

  Danny didn’t answer, or ask him in. He just put his laptop and cable into the sports bag containing the hardware they’d taken from the armoury, picked it up and stepped outside into the cool night.

  ‘You get the motor?’

  Spud nodded and pointed to a black Honda Civic parked up in front of the flat.

  ‘Good,’ Danny said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Twenty-two

  Yellow Seven had told Tony there was nowhere more boring than Sandringham. In the forty-eight hours that he’d been here, Tony hadn’t seen much to make him d
isagree.

  The Regiment man had been assigned quarters in a small house fifty metres to the east of the main residence. This was where all the security personnel were housed, but Yellow Seven had pulled some strings to get Tony a pad to himself. Not that it was any great shakes. It looked swanky and ornate from the outside, all red brick and manicured gardens. Inside, it was shabby. Moth-eaten furniture that couldn’t have been less than fifty years old. Dusty hunting prints hanging crooked on the wall. A smell of age and neglect.

  At least there was a TV. Tony was sprawled on a lumpy old sofa in front of it, a glass of Scotch at his side. Decent stuff. Yellow Seven had pressed it on him when they’d arrived at Sandringham, and it was already half gone. Tony flicked through the channels with a bored, glazed look. One moment there was a rerun of some twat dancing the tango, the next there was footage of hungry Syrian civilians starving in some town under siege by government forces. Tony found them both equally tedious.

  He thought about leaving. Truth to tell, he’d thought about leaving since the moment he’d arrived and delivered a shaken-up Yellow Seven to the royal family’s CP team. But each moment he was on the point of jacking it and heading back home to Hereford, he reminded himself why he was here. Proximity to the royal family was an asset that a man like Tony could use to his advantage. Fuck the army. Fuck the Regiment. If Yellow Seven wanted Tony by his side, and if Tony had enough dirt on his new royal friend to bury him – which he already did – he reckoned he could name his price.

  So he’d made the best of it. He’d got in with all the royal protection officers on site, and all the minor security personnel. To a man, they were pissed off that they’d be spending their Christmas keeping tabs on this bunch of overprivileged twats. It hadn’t taken much to cosy up to them. A few well-chosen comments about the royals and they were putty in Tony’s hands. Half of them were in the grounds now, supposedly combing the place for intruders, more likely loitering out of sight and smoking cigarettes to make the evening pass quicker. Talk about a crappy way to spend Christmas Eve.

  He flicked the TV off and drained his Scotch. He thought about calling his missus, but decided against it. Stupid bitch had played hide the zucchini with Spud Glover, for Christ’s sake. She could sit by herself all fucking Christmas, as far as Tony was concerned. Yellow Seven had asked that Tony accompany him on a clay pigeon shoot on Boxing Day. Should be good for a laugh, watching those inbred cunts trying to handle a shotgun.

  His phone rang. Tony glanced at it. At the sight of the name on the screen, he felt a wave of dislike so powerful it made him sit up.

  Danny Black.

  What did that piece of shit want?

  He let the call ring out.

  Tony felt his pulse rising. What was it about Black that did that to him?

  Ten seconds’ silence. Then the phone rang again.

  This time he picked it up.

  ‘What?’ he spat.

  The connection cut in and out. Crappy signal in this part of Norfolk.

  ‘You still in Sandringham?’ Black’s voice sounded different to usual. No expression. Tense.

  ‘What the fuck difference does it make to you?’

  ‘We need to talk,’ Black said.

  Tony frowned. He could only think of one thing that Black would want to talk to him about, and that was the events on the migrant boat four nights ago, the little fracas between him and Spud. And Tony had a pretty good idea how that conversation would go.

  ‘You’ll have to come to me,’ Tony said.

  ‘We already did.’

  Tony’s eyes panned across the room. His sidearm, holstered up, was hanging on the back of an old dining chair on the far side of the room. ‘Where are you?’ he asked carefully.

  ‘Sandringham Estate, north entrance. Come alone, and don’t tell anyone. There’s something in it for you.’

  Sure, Tony thought. Like, one behind the ear.

  ‘Tempting, Black,’ Tony said. ‘But I think I’ll take a rain check.’

  ‘That’s your call,’ Black said. ‘But then you won’t find out why everyone was so jumpy about getting Yellow Seven back to the UK. Laters, Tony.’

  ‘Wait,’ Tony said. He paused. If Black was waiting at the north entrance, it would take him three to four minutes to get to the south-eastern entrance, whereas it would take Tony forty-five seconds. He could get there first, rather than walk into some clumsy trap of Danny Black’s. ‘There’s an entrance at the south-eastern perimeter. I’ll be there in five.’

  He hung up and hurried to grab his sidearm. Seconds later he was outside. Mist had descended, thick and freezing. Tony sprinted through it towards the south-eastern gate, keeping to the cover of the trees by the side of the road that led up to it. He knew that the estate grounds were being patrolled by security personnel. He’d been introduced to them, and they knew his face. But he didn’t want any of those muppets stopping for a chat, slowing him down, so he kept hidden and moved quietly.

  The gates were a good twelve feet tall, impressively constructed from black wrought iron, and incredibly ornate. They were covered with a thin film of frost. The CCTV camera covering the gates was situated atop a post a couple of metres inside the perimeter – no attempt to conceal it. Beyond the gates, a road, but the visibility was so poor that it was impossible to see as far as the forest on the far side. There was a smaller pedestrian gate to the left, electronically locked and with a video intercom. Tony approached the intercom and pressed the button. Security was high tonight, so he needed to buzz out as well as buzz in. A few seconds later, a voice came from the speaker. ‘What’s up, Tony?’

  Tony recognised the voice. He’d been introduced to its owner earlier in the day. Youngish bloke with a beard to make him look older. He’d looked like he might jizz his pants when he found out Tony was Regiment. ‘Alright Matt,’ Tony said, remembering his name just in time. ‘Let us out, would you? Got a bird waiting for me down the road, if she fucking shows up in this weather.’

  Matt chuckled. ‘Give her one from me,’ he said. There was a buzzing sound. Tony pushed the gate open, scurried ten metres to the left to get himself out of the range of the CCTV camera, and quickly started looking for a place to conceal himself before Black arrived. Now he could just make out the trees on the opposite side of the road. Distance, twenty metres. They would afford him enough cover. He moved towards them.

  Then he stopped.

  The red pinprick of a laser mark was dancing squarely on his chest. Its beam cut a faint red line through the mist.

  Tony drew a deep breath. He even smiled, though not pleasantly, as he realised that Black had lied about which gate he was waiting at. The silhouette of a figure appeared, emerging from the misty tree cover on the other side of the road, breath condensing in billows around his head. Tony couldn’t make out a face, but he didn’t need to.

  ‘You were there all the time,’ he called. It wasn’t a question.

  The figure kept walking. The laser dot stayed on Tony’s chest.

  ‘You’re a devious cunt, Black. I’ll give you that.’

  The figure was crossing the road. Ten metres. Danny Black’s dark features became visible. He walked right up to Tony, dead-eyed. ‘Takes one to know one, Tony.’

  ‘What the fuck’s happened to you? You look like a corpse.’

  ‘Give me your gun, Tony.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m carrying?’

  ‘Give me your gun.’

  A pause. Tony put his hand to his holster, pulled the sidearm and handed it to Black, handle first. Black took it, then raised one hand. The laser sight disappeared from Tony’s chest, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think he wasn’t still a target. He peered towards the trees. ‘Spud?’ he said.

  Black nodded. He looked towards the Sandringham grounds. ‘Security?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Get to the trees. Don’t worry about Spud. He won’t be squeezing triggers unless you do something stupid. So try to break the habit of a lifetime
, huh?’

  Tony walked.

  Danny followed. They reached the cover of the trees in ten seconds. Spud was visible five metres back, the butt of his rifle pressed into his shoulder, mist curling around him like dry ice. Danny gestured at him to lower it. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Tony’s going to try very hard not to be a dickhead. Plus, I’ve got his gun.’

  Spud lowered the rifle. He and Tony glowered at each other. ‘I see you brought the work experience,’ Tony said. ‘He’d probably miss if he tried, but since I’m still breathing I take it you’re not here to nail me.’

  ‘We can help you,’ Danny said, ‘and you can help us. Simple as that.’

  ‘You can help me do what?’ Tony said. He sounded like the idea was ridiculous.

  ‘I know how you think, Tony. You’re always trying to work out how to turn a situation to your advantage. You didn’t want to go babysit Yellow Seven, but now you’re with him, you’re thinking: what’s in it for you. Am I wrong?’

  Tony sniffed, but didn’t answer.

  ‘The security services think there’s going to be a hit at Westminster Abbey on Christmas morning. They’re wrong.’

  ‘Like you’d know,’ Tony snarled.

  ‘The hit’s going to be here, at Sandringham, on the royal family, while everyone’s attention is on London. At least one sniper, probably more. We’re going to stop it. You’re going to take the glory. I’m going to take the shooter. Simple as that.’

  ‘Nothing’s as simple as that. Why don’t you inform the headshed? They’ll put a stop to it in a second.’

  ‘There are reasons,’ Danny said.

  ‘Yeah? Well unless you tell me what they are, you can fuck off.’ He turned and made to leave.

  Danny paused. He felt the skin round his eyes tightening. ‘Because one of the guys involved in the hit has my daughter,’ he said. As he spoke, he had to suppress the nausea again.

  A pause. If Tony was concerned, or shocked, he didn’t show it.

  ‘How d’you work that out?’ Tony said.